


Into the Light

by LunaStellaCat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-09-27 19:23:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10041359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaStellaCat/pseuds/LunaStellaCat
Summary: Kingsley Shacklebolt takes a chance to drag everyone back into the light.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Paige](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paige/gifts).



Kingsley sat in the middle of the floor in the headmistress’s office, Indian-style. As this was one of the few places not destroyed by the Battle of Hogwarts, he retreated here because he needed someplace to think. There had to be a game plan in place after the chaos lifted. After Harry Potter went off to bed in his dormitory, Kingsley escaped here with a legal pad and rolls of parchment scattered around him. 

Death surrounded him. He tried not to think of the losses, though this proved an impossible task, so he focused on drafting a floor plan from the ground up. As Fred Weasley’s face swam into his mind, he recalled the Weasley twins joking about his bid for Minister for Magic. A joke was simply a joke, right? Words meant nothing, absolutely nothing, until someone placed meaning behind them. Kingsley jotted down a quick list without thinking; he emptied his brain. If he analyzed this to death, he’d never get it down onto parchment or paper. 

The headmistress left him alone and went to put out small fires. Returning every so often, Minerva McGonagall asked if he needed anything, and he gave the same answer. No, he was fine. Kingsley got up and paced the office, stretching his legs and sometimes talking to himself. Well into the evening, past the wee hours, she let him stay there. She came back around eight-thirty, stepped away to take a shower, and sat behind her desk. 

Kingsley felt her watching him when he set aside a roll of parchment scribbled with notes. The final draft, or a draft in the works, got transferred into the legal pad. “I am not a crazy man.” 

“Nobody said you were,” she said. 

“I talk to myself,” he said apologetically, scratching his chin with a quill. 

“That’s all right.” 

When he offered to leave for either the third or fourth time, Professor McGonagall glared at him and gave him a look he hadn’t received in years. Kingsley ripped a sheet off the legal pad and tossed it into the fire. The more he scribbled, the more this joke started to sound like the beginnings of an idea. A house-elf came in and set tea and sandwiches on the floor next to him. Kingsley stopped and reached for one of them. He didn't notice darkness had fallen. 

“The government has to survive this,” he said, stretching his legs because he’d been locked in the same position for hours. The eyes of the portraits of headmasters and headmistresses in the walls followed him. None of them said a word. It took a minute for Kingsley to realize they might think he shared a private conversation with one. He pointed his wand at the dying fire, and flames ignited in the grate, startling Minerva. he wondered if she’d even listened to his musings and nothings. “There has to be something left to save, or else there’s no point. What’s the point?” 

Minerva placed a hand on her forehead. “You’re brilliant.” 

“I am?” This sounded odd to him, so Kingsley started pacing in a circle and retreated back into his head. 

Brilliance scared him, although he was no stranger to failure. His father, a wealthy man who spent his money and his free time on alchemical pursuits, lived by a handful of sayings. Whether they were of his own invention and drawn from his own personal experiences, Kingsley did not know. Hadn't he failed with Sirius? If Sirius hadn't gone off to the Department of Mysteries two summers ago, he would’ve walked away a free man. 

“Or he could’ve gotten hit by the Knight Bus,” said Kingsley, rubbing his tired eyes. He smiled to himself, and Minerva, picking up on the fact that he wasn’t speaking to her again, wrote something down. “There are things within our control and things that are not, but we have a hand in most of it.” 

Minerva dipped her quill in an ink bottle and left it there. “Are you talking to me again?” She took off her spectacles, set them aside, and considered him. Kingsley doubted she could see him. Kingsley nodded, second guessed this move, and said yes. She actually smiled. “Kingsley, would a man die of starvation or thirst first?” 

Thinking perhaps she was pulling a Professor Dumbledore here, Kingsley studied the portrait of the old man behind her. Dumbledore was sleeping. 

“Starvation,” he answered automatically, placing his hands behind his back and falling into a military stance. 

“Why?” Minerva’s eyebrows knitted together when Kingsley smiled at her, for she knew why. “Pretend I’m stupid.” 

“There is water in food,” he said, shrugging. He could give the really in-depth answer here, since she’d asked, but he spared her the details. “Find water, and food will eventually come. You’d have to work at it, of course, but it’s simply laying the groundwork and going from there.” 

“What?” She’d pretended to zone out for a moment and cupped a hand around her ear. Kingsley bowed his head, playing his last words back through his mind. Minerva picked a piece of rumble off the ground and tossed it into the air. 

Kingsley caught it. “Thank you, Professor McGonagall,” he said softly, slipping the chunk of whatever was into his pocket. When he reached the door, he turned around to face her again. The Head’s Office had sealed itself against most of the damage during the battle. “You could’ve said something.” 

“I’m a teacher, Mr. Shacklebolt,” she said, raising her wand and drawing a chair. It landed on the floor. “I wouldn’t want to be doing you a disservice. Talk to me.” 

Kingsley, who felt stupid that he hadn’t thought of that move, sat down after he picked up his things off the floor. He back had started ached and his left foot tickled because it had fallen asleep. 

“Where do I start?” He searched for the place where he'd stopped. A lot of his notes made no sense whatsoever. 

“At the beginning,” she suggested. She rested her chin on her hand. “Jump in any time, Albus. unless you want him to drown.” 

“Hey,” said Kingsley, looking up at Professor Dumbledore. The professor opened his eyes and returned Kingsley’s smile. 

“Hello, Kingsley,” said Professor Dumbledore, drumming his fingers on his chair. “The trick to building a foundation is finding the foundation first. What do you want?” 

Kingsley shut up again, hating their cryptic answers at this point. He’d been thinking alone for hours and hours, whilst these Heads held their tongues. He didn’t look for the answers in his notes. “It’s not that simple.” 

“You mentioned control. Make it simple.” Professor Dumbledore waited for this to set in, and when this did nothing for Kingsley, he threw the same question back at him, raising his voice, speaking slower. “What do you want? What do you want?” 

“It’s not …” Kingsley flipped through his brainstorming mess so fast he saw nothing there. He cleared his throat and swallowed his pathetic excuse. “I want structure, security, and stability. I want peace.” 

“All right.” Professor Dumbledore nodded, accepting the answer. “Which comes first?” 

“Security,” said Kingsley, nodding, believing his words for the first time. 

He couldn't pretend that he hadn’t considered this idea whenever Fred Weasley had planted the seed in his head. Really, he couldn’t recall at this point whether it was Fred, or his twin brother, or Lee Jordan at this point, but what did it matter? Turning to a fresh page, he placed the legal pad on his knee, dripped his quill in an ink bottle, and started writing again. 

He underlined the heading and jotted down three names: Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Neville Longbottom. 

“Harry’s not coming back to school,” said Kingsley. “He’s mine.” 

“Mr. Weasley will be so disappointed,” said Minerva, placing her things in a drawer and locking it with a tap of her wand. 

“Oh, I’m taking him, too. Mr. Potter needs his ginger sidekick.” Kingsley jotted down some more stuff before he got to his feet again. Minerva scoffed. “And Neville. I want Neville.” 

“He’s finished with school,” she said, cleaning her spectacles. 

“Right. Don’t imagine I’d have to fight Augusta Longbottom for him, do you? Frank trained me, after all, and I like having a Longbottom along for the ride.” Kingsley strode over and shook her hand after he tossed the rolls of parchment in the flames. “Let me know if you need anything.” 

“Of course.” Crossing her fingers, Minerva said nothing else until he reached the door. “I might actually like the government for once.” 

 

“Don’t get your hopes up!” Kingsley winked at her. “Good meeting.” 

“Kingsley?” 

“Yes, Professor?” 

“A wise man once said every human life is worth the same, and worth saving*.” Minerva quoted him verbatim off the Potterwatch program. He felt flattered and confused at the same time, for he hadn’t known that she’d listened in. He opened his mouth to say something, though Kingsley had no idea what, and she said, smiling, “and I’d like to add everyone is worth dragging back into the light.” 

Kingsley, not really knowing what to say here, simply turning the doorknob. 

She didn’t call after him until he started down the spiral staircase. “Not a meeting, Mr. Shacklebolt.” 

 

Three days later, Kingsley stood in the Atrium and took it all in for a moment. Except for the grotesque sight that replaced the Fountain of Magical Brethren, it looked the same. Already resigned to the fact that this was going to be the longest summer of his life, Kingsley stuck his hands in his trouser pockets and continued on his way, whistling a random tune. 

He’d returned from having lunch with the Minister of Muggles, the Prime Minister, and he had reason to believe the fellow really liked him. Kingsley hadn't taken out his wand and started performing magic tricks for one thing, and he’d given the man ample time to say whatever he needed. He’d complained that he hadn't met Kingsley’s predecessor, and Kingsley assured him for all intents and purposes, unless he really wanted to meet Lord Voldemort’s marionette, this really was of no consequence. Voldemort might’ve killed the Minister of Muggles for the hell of it. Frankly, and Kingsley kept this last bit to himself, he was surprised Lord Voldemort hadn’t played that card. 

He met the boys at the Fountain of Magical Brethren. Kingsley corrected himself, for they were young men now, and they’d certainly seen more than he’d imagined at their age. Kingsley had only been in regular contact with Neville during the war, and this was rare, usually through encrypted owls, since Kingsley had been on the run. He’d accidentally made himself a marked man by saying Lord Voldemort’s name. 

“So Kingsley,” said Ron, practically dancing on the balls of his feet in anticipation. “What’re we doing today?” 

“Well, usually there’s an initiation process,” piped up Neville, bringing up the rear. 

Kingsley nodded, a little surprised that he’d heard about the hazing within the Auror Department. As he was the son of Frank and Alice Longbottom, Kingsley supposed this wasn’t much of a stretch because Neville’s grandmother liked to brag about her son. To hear Augusta Longbottom say it, Frank was a gift from God. 

Hours before, Kingsley had been sworn in as the acting Minister for Magic. He didn't hold the office in an official capacity, but as Mr. Pius Thicknesse was “unable to hold the office”, he shouldered the responsibility. Kingsley had said the words, reciting them after Tiberius Ogden, not realizing that he’d have to say them again if and when he actually became Minister for Magic. 

“How’s the Prime Minister?” asked Harry. “Did he freak out when a wizard showed up in his office?” 

“He is fine,” said Kingsley, smiling, “and he does not freak out in front of me. He did seem to think it was odd that his former secretary ended up as Minister for Magic. But I told him I know my letters really well, and I’m a bit of a perfectionist.” 

“You are?” Ron took in his immaculate suit and his polished shoes and decided not to question Kingsley’s self-diagnosis. “Yeah, yeah, I can see that.” 

“You should see Sirius’s file,” said Kingsley, placing his hand on Harry’s shoulder and steering him towards the lift. Kingsley was a liar, yet he lied well. When they stepped onto the second floor instead of the Minister’s office, Ron asked if they were visiting his father. Kingsley straightened the sign reading “Auror Headquarters”; it fell back into place at its odd angle. “Nope. This is your new home, gentlemen.” 

They grinned at each other. Remembering his first day at this place more than twenty years ago, Kingsley showed them around by giving them a brief tour. Past the maze of cubicles, a training station stood in the back. This place, shared by both Aurors Headquarters and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was known colloquially as the Annex; a research centre for the bookworm lawyers and a training station for the Aurors, this place was the heart of the second floor. Kingsley placed his wand on a set of brass scales. It followed the exact same procedure upon entering the Ministry through the visitors' entrance, minus the bored security guard.

Tearing off the slip of parchment, Kingsley handed it to Ron and stared at a clink in the glass, an Eye Recognition Charm built into the barrier. A cool female voice recited Kingsley's name, including his rank. Impressed, Harry, Ron, and Neville exchanged looks again, though to Kingsley, this was akin to turning off the alarm clock every morning. A cavernous room stood behind the charmed glass barrier. Cubby holes lined the far walls. 

A ballgown was draped over one of the scattered folding chairs. Kingsley shrugged off his suit jacket and tossed it over this carelessly. Stepping out of his dress shoes, he placed these in a cubby hole and swapped them out for a pair of well worn trainers. A tall man with a long ponytail stood off to the side dressed in casual robes, and Kingsley introduced him as Kaspar Williamson. 

"I dismissed the whole department," said Kingsley, tying his trainer laces and stripping off his dress shirt. He added this to the stuff on the chair, too, and he was pleased the boys had followed his tip on wearing Muggle clothing today because they'd be more comfortable. 

"Why?" Harry spoke up first. Kingsley couldn't blame him. He'd second guessed his own idea at first, too, yet a fresh start meant a turning a new page. Considering the damage in the other departments, the losses in the Auror Department were minimal. "What if something happens?" 

“Nothing’s going to happen,” said Kingsley reassuringly.

"We're screwed," admitted Kaspar, circling the recruits and sizing them up, "but there's nothing to really protect at the moment. I got reinstated this morning." 

"What makes you special?" asked Ron, interested. 

"Dunno. Thanks for volunteering as sparring partner, though, ginger, that's brave of you." Kaspar taped his hands and jerked his head towards the floor mat in the centre of the room. Ron gulped, glancing nervously at Harry. Harry laughed, shrugging. 

"Harry and Neville, stand back, please. You don't need a wand here, Ron," said Kingsley, holding out his hand. Ron looked even more uncomfortable, if this were possible, yet he surrendered his wand after a moment or two. Kingsley nodded at Kaspar. "Where's my wife?" 

"You're married?" Harry and Neville asked together, shocked. 

Wordlessly, Kingsley fingered the chain around his neck, showing them the Christian cross and wedding band that hung there. When a man lost himself in disguises and aliases as often as he did, these things became mere trinkets, and they sometimes revealed possible weaknesses, too, so he kept his private life under lock and key. 

"He has a daughter, too," said Kaspar, grinning as he waved Ron over. Ron reminded Kingsley of a man walking the plank, rigid and timid. Kaspar showed him a stance, which Ron attempted to mirror as Kaspar moved like a prowling cat. Ron, complaining Muggle dueling was a waste of time, made his first mistake. Kaspar threw the first punch and hit him squarely in the jaw. He acted like they discussed the weather and taunted Ron with a flick of his wrist. Ron, still on his feet, missed. Kaspar threw up three fingers. "She's three. She likes bunnies and apple slices." 

Harry took the bait. "What's her name?" 

"Rachelle." Kingsley crossed his arms, only mildly interested in the sparring match. He expected Ron Weasley to get an ass kicking. He hadn't, however, expected him to be the first example of the day. Since he was essentially streamlining them into a crash course over the next few months, he let his guard down. He looked around, curiosity breaking his professional tone because he hadn't seen his Rachelle in almost a year. "She stays in New York with her mother. Where is she, Kaspar?" 

The barrier to the Annex opened again minutes later. A white woman dressed in casual clothes, her auburn hair tied back in a ponytail, entered the room, shifting plastic grocery bags in her arms, her wand balanced on top of these. Rachelle followed her inside. Kingsley introduced his wife and daughter, relaxing a little, and scooped up his little girl.

"Hello." Kingsley brushed the think curls out of Rachelle's eyes. 

"Do you even remember that man? Don't talk to strangers." Kaspar swerved from Ron's fist easily and knocked him to the ground with a one-two punch as he swept him off his feet. Ron, cradling his sore jaw, stared at him, flummoxed. Kaspar offered him a hand, pulling him to his feet, and winked at Kingsley's daughter. 

"Don't tell her that. She knows who I am." Kingsley shifted his daughter in his arms, as Rachelle wrapped her arms around his neck. "Ron, it's your footing. Find your centre of gravity and put your body into it. Momentum is your friend." 

Ron scowled at Kaspar. 

"Stay with Mama, I'll be right over there," said Kingsley, pecking Rachelle on the cheek and kissing his wife as he gave Rachelle to her. "Good afternoon, darling, you're beautiful." 

"Haven't heard that in a while," said Patti. He used to tell her that every day. 

"Okay. You two want to do a round of rock, paper, scissors to settle the score?" Kingsley turned towards Neville and Harry. Neville, confused, acted as though Kingsley just spoke Greek, and Kingsley played a quick round with Kaspar. "Scissors beats paper. That's me. Mr. Longbottom." 

Patti laughed when Kaspar mentioned a fellow getting the stuffing knocked out of him by the Minister for Magic. Kingsley had made the call because Neville didn't seem to grasp the point of the little game. Like Kaspar, he demonstrated the stance, explaining that people got disarmed all the time. It happened. They needed other ways to defend themselves whenever they backed themselves out of a corner. Aurors weren't perfect, and there were better duelers out there. When Ron got cheeky, saying he and Harry had been on their own for the better part of a year, Kingsley danced on his feet and showed Neville how to block his face. 

"You don't have Hermione Granger in your back pocket today, Ron," said Kingsley lightly. 

Throwing out a punch, which Neville ducked. Kingsley appreciated that Neville paid attention. Neville shifted his feet without being told to do so. If Ron wanted to sulk, that was fine, but he wasn't going to waste neither Kingsley's nor Kaspar's time. Kingsley shuffled his feet and demonstrated an upper cut and a few other jabs, which Neville got after a couple tries as they sliced through the air. Without warning, Kingsley jumped into the sparring session, and Neville more surprised than anyone, caught Kingsley in the torso twice.

Kaspar applauded his effort and raised his fist, punching the air. "Mine!" 

"Who're you?" asked Patti, picking up Rachelle's untied shoe when it fell onto the floor. 

"Neville. Neville Longbottom." Neville wiped his brow, grinning a little when Patti laughed with her whole body. Kingsley shrugged. "What?" 

"Your father trained him and me," she said, nodding at Kingsley as she gathered herself. "Not an Auror anymore. I left after putting in ten years of service. But your parents? They were something else. And you're a fighter. Are you awake now, Minister, or do you need a minute? Need a breather?" 

"Because you're old, see." Kaspar filled in the blank unnecessarily because Kingsley got the jab. 

Patti rapped her knuckles against Neville's, a gesture Kingsley thought she'd picked up in the States. He'd never seen it before. Neville, however, thought it was hilarious. "Well done, Mr. Longbottom." 

"Thanks," said Neville, accepting some water from Ron. 

"Daddy is strong," said Rachelle. 

"Thank you," said Kingsley, getting ready for another go with Neville. He wasn't shabby because he'd joust come off a war and had scraped by on his own for months. This time, Neville lasted for nearly six minutes, and he didn't surrender. He'd also decided to Apparate as he shifted position, not letting Kingsley back him into a corner. Both Kingsley and Kaspar praised him for this move, and Kingsley was thrown off for a minute. Neville didn't take advantage of this hesitation, something Harry pointed out, rooting for Neville. Before the Battle of Hogwarts, Kingsley had kept himself to his usual strict diet. Kingsley excelled in pretty much everything he did in the Auror Department. "She likes me." 

"She's your daughter, your princess," said Patti and Kaspar in unison. 

Kingsley nodded. What did he care? After another round of rock, paper, scissors, Kingsley stepped back, and Kaspar took a round with Harry. Lithe and level-headed, saying something about his cousin, Harry held his own, too. He actually grabbed Kaspar, a fit man who flew through annual physicals, and rammed him into a wall after Kaspar stepped on his glasses. Kaspar, never one to back down, found the pressure point in Harry's neck, temporarily controlling him. 

When they got into the middle of the mat, Kaspar told Harry to punch with the thumb inside his fist because it did no good to attack like a little girl. He must put his weight behind it. After repairing Harry’s glasses and giving them back to him, Kaspar demonstrated on Kingsley, who stood there like a brick wall as the officer struck him again and again. 

"How the hell are you this fit right now?" Frustrated, flexing his fingers, Kaspar landed one final blow into Kingsley and stopped whenever he got winded. Kingsley had blocked out the pain and felt very little. "Patti, feed your husband a pastry once in a while. Eat a doughnut, Kingsley, and get some normal in your life." 

"Okay, we'll do another round later." Kingsley called a time out and handed his daughter off to Kaspar. He left with the recruits and grabbed the groceries. The door to the Annex sealed itself ehind them. "I like the dress." 

"I have a speaking engagement in the city. When your appointment reaches the papers, you'll be glad to have me by your side." Patti was a political strategist who worked for the United Kingdom and across the pond. She caressed his cheek. "I'm free after that if you want to grab dinner." 

"Yeah. There's an Indian takeout place three streets down." He stopped when she started kissing him. 

He'd forgotten how much he missed her touch and her lips. She didn't care about dinner plans. Neither did he, for Kingsley couldn't remember the last time they'd shared a bed. When he suggested Rachelle spend the night at Kaspar's, Patti jumped on the offer before he'd finished saying it. He chuckled, holding her at arm's length when she tried to kiss him again. He offered up no excuses because they'd both gotten wrapped up in their lives. 

He'd forgotten her. "Been a while hasn't it?" 

"Since Rachelle." 

"Oh, yeah, that's bad." Feeling guilty, Kingsley wondered if he could get away with passing Rachelle off to Kaspar for the weekend. Kaspar was a divorced father two children, a boy and a girl. Patti nodded, saying she'd actually counted the days of this dry spell. She crackled her knuckles and massaged the tension from his neck and shoulders. 

"Patti, Patti," said Kaspar, coming back into the Annex, a half-eaten sandwich in his hand. Patti dropped her hands and offered Kingsley his suit jacket and his shirt. Kingsley fastened the shirt with quick fingers. "I've decided to make Kingsley eat a marshmallow fluff and honey sandwich. It's like a Cruciatus Curse, except it's food." 

Kingsley gagged. "No, thank you. I'll take a plain salad." 

"You can eat your rabbit food after," said Patti, patting him on the cheek.

Kingsley lost his appetite. 

 

July arrived. How exactly was he supposed to cram three years of education into three months? Luckily, Hermione took the logical path and decided to return to school for her seventh year. What mattered and what could wait? Lessons came with time, and this was exactly what Kingsley didn't have. He offered Patti an invitation into the Auror Department, promising her old rank, and privileges, and everything, yet she'd laughed him out of his own flat one morning. 

She had promised to stay in England. 

"Mama's in a mood." He should've seen this coming. 

Kingsley took Rachelle's hand and led her down the street. Ron, Harry, and Neville weren't going to turn into Mad-Eye Moody overnight. There would not be another Mad-Eye. When he noticed the reporters tailing them, Kingsley sighed, thinking this got old too quickly, and decided to carry his daughter. When they reached the Apparition point, he turned on his heel and vanished. 

When they reappeared at King's Cross Station, Kingsley snapped his fingers, annoyed with his carelessness. When nobody else was looking, he took out his wand and caught a battered suitcase knotted with lots of string. It used to belong to Remus. When Remus jokingly asked what he wanted in exchange for putting up with all the craziness behind the scenes with Potterwatch, Kingsley pointed at this. After scratching off his name, although Tonks thought this was a stupid request, Remus had handed it over without question. Kingsley used it for disguises. 

Kingsley sat on a bench and resumed teaching his daughter how to tie her trainers. The boys hadn't arrived yet. He parked Rachelle next to him and went with the tried and true bunny analogy, seeing as she liked those so much. Patient, he was better at this than Patti. Whenever Rachelle got frustrated or teary, they walked around the train station for a while. He'd show her with one trainer and hastily untie the other one. 

"No, no, darling. Rachelle?" Kingsley made her look at him. "Remember when Mama taught you French and English together? I don't know French." 

"You don't?" Her eyes, Patti's eyes, got as big as saucers.

"Can't speak it to save my life, but you can because you're clever," he said, kneeling on the ground. He watched her, grinning when her tongue poked out the side of her mouth. "Now, bunny ears, bunny ears, jump through the hole." 

She finally managed it after three more tries. When Kingsley asked her to do a double knot, she did that sloppily, too. Kingsley fought the urge to fix it for her. By that time, Ron had showed up with Harry and Neville. Neville, who'd grown quite attached to Rachelle, picked her up and tossed her in the air, his usual way of saying good morning. 

"What're we doing today?" asked Ron enthusiastically. 

"It's Saturday." Kingsley sipped his fancy coffee and opened a copy of the _Quibbler_. A large yellow umbrella lay beside him because it threatened to rain. "We are people watching." 

Ron groaned and slumped onto the bench opposite him. Neville, placing Rachelle in his lap and blowing into her ear, sat beside him. Harry, standing the umbrella upright, took the spot next to Kingsley. A quiet man until he got pushed to the brink, Kingsley wondered if he ought to tell Ron to run home to the Burrow. 

They were getting paid for this training. In his day, like every other Auror he knew, no fledgling, an Auror in training left the Ministry in their first year. They, like the lawyers in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, kept their noses in the law books and studied practical theory until the books beat them soundly round their heads. 

"Ron," he said, finishing his coffee and dropping it into a nearby bin before taking one out of Harry's cardboard carrier with thanks. "I have a family, and I can think of a thousand other things I'd rather be doing. But I am trying to help you." 

Ron grumbled and took his anger out on a pastry. Neville played with Rachelle's hair. Kingsley had heard from Professor McGonagall that Neville had once been a fat boy, though he did not see it. Kingsley knew they could use Polyjuice Potion, yet this wasn't the same thing as hiding in plain sight. Kingsley wore a cheap suit for the occasion because the attire helped him get into character. Rachelle wore the dress with the purple flowers on it. Really, Kingsley wanted her to blend in and fade into the background. 

He nodded at a man pulling a trolley. "What do you see?" 

"We're in a train station," said Ron dully. 

"Yes, but what do you see?" Kingsley stopped himself from pointing out that Ron had merely pointed out their location. As they had all traveled here to head of to Hogwarts for school, this did them little good. 

“That man just picked his nose,” said Ron, actually pointing at an old man with an ear trumpet. 

Kingsley took this as something. A few minutes later, he excused himself to use the loo. It was nearly nine o’clock. He left the paper open to the crossword. He’d trained Aurors, lots of them. Nymphadora Tonks, briefly, before she got snatched away by Mad-Eye Moody, got assigned to him for a day. Mad-Eye had liked playing his seniority card. Kingsley had never understood how to put it into play. Kingsley decided Ron was hot-headed, and this would be a challenge because he was not. 

Aurors got reinstated at a slow rate, though they were getting there. Kaspar had dismissed two without cause. Kingsley, who hadn’t seen this before, held his tongue when Kaspar pointed it out in the Diggory Doctrine. Eldritch Diggory, a previous Minister for Magic, had established the Auror Department, and most authorities, amendments notwithstanding, told the dead man’s word as law. Kingsley gave free reign to Kaspar, which made him department head. Perhaps Kaspar needed to deal with Weasley. 

Kingsley tabled this for the moment. Ronald Weasley was Harry Potter’s best mate, and he didn’t want a domino effect and have all his work come crashing down on him. If they walked out on him, he'd have to pull out the legal pad and suffer Kaspar’s wrath. He went back into the train station as it started drizzling outside. The boys were all huddled around an old woman trying desperately to find her black kitten. Ron found it latched to a suitcase for dear life, and they returned to their benches. 

Kingsley almost sat down. He gave the place a once over. Whilst he was usual the calm in the storm, he couldn’t disguise the sudden panic leaking into his tone. She was gone! “Where’s Rachelle?” 

None of them said anything. Kingsley knelt on the floor and started crawling around, calling her name. “Rachelle? Rachelle!” 

Harry and Ron started asking passerby if they’d seen a little girl. Kingsley didn’t listen to how they’d described her, but he was glad they put out the feelers because he lost patience with every passing moment. After five minutes, he came back to the bench and noticed Neville hadn't moved. He sat there clutching Rachelle’s pink school bag. Panicked, Kingsley grabbed him by the front of the robes and lifted him forcibly off the ground. 

“Where is my daughter? Where is Rachelle?” he demanded. 

“Hey, hey,” said Harry cooly, stepping in between them. He kept his eyes on a frightened Neville. Neville’s face turned a deep red and then drained of all color. Harry situated himself squarely between them, pointing his wand at Kingsley’s chest. Kingsley eyed it warily. Although emotion leaked through his words, Harry spoke quite rationally. “Put him down, Minister.” 

Apologizing profusely, Kingsley let go of Neville and glanced up at the skies. The rain was really coming down now. Harry forced the umbrella into Kingsley’s hand, and Ron, although he said this would do no good, alerted the Muggle authorities. The place kept running as normal, and they searched to it for an hour. Other than the bag, they found no trace of her. 

“She’s gone.” Kingsley, still holding the closed umbrella, sank back onto the bench. They released a child abduction alert, although had this been anyone else’s child, Kingsley would’ve said this got released prematurely. 

“Should we alert our authorities?” asked Ron. 

“No,” said Kingsley tonelessly. When both Ron and Harry disagreed, he held up a hand, fighting to keep calm. “I need a minute. Just give me a minute.” 

He slipped behind a glass partition and slid the door closed. Forty-eight hours. That was how long this took; these cases usually ended really quickly. As he was a Dark Wizard Catcher, Kingsley had handled a handful of them. He’d found a girl once, but she’d been bitten by a werewolf and had succumbed to her injuries. Kingsley had held the dying girl in his arms until she’d taken her last breath. He’d lied to her when he told her it was going to be all right as she bled to death. 

Kingsley threw up on the floor. When the door slid open, Patti walked inside, flanked by Harry and Ron. Neville brought up the rear. Patti had been off at a press conference. She hugged herself, shaking her head as Ron reeled off the facts. Then he asked about releasing a child alert, she nodded, pale and numb. Ron left, clapping her on the shoulder, and Patti stepped over the pool of sick. 

“Where is she?” She kept her eyes on Kingsley. He had nothing to give her. “Kingsley, this happens all the time! You know this. She’s mine.” 

“I know.” He didn’t know what else to say. She slapped him. Kingsley didn’t flinch and he stared back at her. 

“When did this happen?” Her eyes darted between Harry and Neville. Neville cleaned the sick with a casual wave of his wand. Patti sat down and crossed her legs, impatient and furious. 

“I don’t know exactly.” Harry spoke up first, leaning against the wall. 

“You don’t know? That’s … that’s unacceptable. You want to be an Auror, Mr. Potter? Your name will only get you so far. Same goes for you, Mr. Longbottom. Do you realize who you’re talking to?” Patti stopped in front of Harry. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, his voice caught in his throat. 

“Patti.” Kingsley marched her out of the private partition and shared the large umbrella with her. “You are frightening them. These boys … they are doing the best they can.” 

“It’s not good enough,” she hissed. “I want Kaspar. Now!” 

“He’s on his way,” said Kingsley, guessing that they had sent both her and their department head an owl. 

When she glared at him, her jaw set, he went to send another. This was completely his fault. After he sent it off, borrowing an owl from a traveler, someone who studied birds, he went back to his wife. He found her laughing and crying hysterically, and he couldn’t blame Harry and Neville for hiding. He rapped his knuckles on the glass, and they came out. Kingsley knelt on the floor and questioned her patiently. 

Kaspar arrived on the scene resembling a drowned rat. His ponytail clung to the back of his neck. 

“What’s wrong?” Kingsley asked this more than once.

Patti went into this story about how she’d prepared this home cooked meal and rearranged her Saturday timetable. Kingsley thanked her. She’d mentioned the other day she had news, and he’d blown her off, absorbed in budget cut proposals. He had a lot on his plate, and he rarely did this move, but it happened too frequently these days. When Kingsley asked if this was about redecorating the sitting room, she hissed through gritted teeth, making sure he caught every word. “I am pregnant, you blind moron.” 

“Oh.” Kingsley’s face fell. 

“Oh? Oh? You said that last time, too.” Patti dropped the subject when Kaspar cleared his throat loudly. She turned to face him. 

“Charge is Rachelle Delta Shacklebolt, aged four. She has a birth mark behind her left ear?” Kaspar turned to Kingsley for confirmation. He said yes. Kaspar continued, reading off the alert. “Is she a citizen here?” 

“No. I mean, I have dual-citizenship, but she was born in New York.” Patti fished a copy of the birth certificate out of her large handbag and handled it over. She glanced at all of them in turn. Harry decided to study his trainers. “Does that matter?” 

“No.” Kaspar took the birth certificate and added it to the file. He matched only Kingsley in his organization skills. He placed his hand on Patti’s shoulder. “Is there anything else you need to tell me?”  


“She speaks French,” Kingsley offered, fishing, “and she’s afraid of the dark.”

“Oh, God.” Patti took quick, swallow breaths. Before she could walk away, Kaspar draped his traveling cloak over the wet bench and forced her to sit down beside him. 

“Patti, I’ve got this handled. You hear me?” Kaspar waved his wand and caught a goblet. He gave her a Calming Draught. He snapped his fingers at Harry and Neville and asked for an interpreter. He waited the Floo Network grounded and International Customs searched. Patti immediately offered herself, but he refused. When they turned to leave, he stopped Harry. “Potter, I want transcripts of the Death Eater trials in my office in thirty minutes, please, and I want Gawain Robards on this one. You’re taking lead.” 

“Me?” Harry did a double take. 

“He’s a kid, Kaspar, a fledgling,” said Patti. 

“You’re the mother, not the officer here, Patti,” said Kaspar, and Kingsley was astounded he didn’t pull rank here. He silenced her with a look and turned back to Harry. “You got this?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” said Harry, sounding like he didn’t have this at all. 

He took the folder Kaspar offered him, cast the Germinio Charm, handed over a copy and bowed awkwardly at Kingsley and Patti before he and Neville left King’s Cross. Kaspar sat with Patti until she told him she was all right. Kingsley knew she’d lied straight through her teeth. As Kaspar had effectively told her to stand down, Kingsley followed the same orders. Kaspar had offered to walk them home. When they arrived at the flat, Kingsley said thank you, keeping it short and sweet. There was a faint pop as Kaspar Disapparated, and Patti broke down in Kingsley’s arms the moment he locked the door with the magical deadbolt. 


	2. Minister and Prophet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kingsley meets the Minister of Muggles.

This happened all the time. Kingsley knew that better than others, but it didn’t happen to him. When he’d accepted the post of Minister for Magic, his worst fears were like an assassination attempt or that his Cabinet would demand his resignation. As he had no political experience, Kingsley saw this as a possibility. To be fair, there had been other Aurors in office. Never in a million years would he have imagined this. 

Patti wanted to go back to her New York brownstone, and he’d said there was no use in hiding out. This came out of nowhere, for he’d thought she’d sold the place. Of course, things moved quickly with the Ministry, and he liked the idea of a second home. They’d have to sell his place with another kid on the way, a place he loved, but he tried not to think of this. Late one night, he watched her pack a bag. Neither of them had slept a wink in three days since Rachelle disappeared. 

“Patti. Stop.” He got out the bed and closed her suitcase.

“I can’t.” She snatched a blouse off a hanger and tossed it over a chair. “You know when things went wrong? You said … you said everything was fine. Come home, Patricia. It’s fine. Leave New York. We will be fine. You said these things!” 

Kingsley took a deep breath, wondering if the Auror detail standing outside their bedroom caught this conversation. Surely they did. “Yes.” 

“You were wrong. Wrong!” Patti wrapped her hair into a messy bun. “Wait for Sirius. Wait until the end of the war. Wait for me, Patti, I love you, wait for me.” 

Kingsley, annoyed with her, got up to take a shower. She tossed something at him. Kingsley couldn’t see too well in the dark, but he felt around on the ground and picked up her wedding ring. She packed by the moonlight, probably not wanting to startle their security detail. Kingsley, thinking she was overreacting, placed the ring on the vanity. 

“They’ll find her.” 

“And if they don’t? Kingsley, I promise you, if one of these Death Eaters touches my daughter, you’re going to be locking me up in Azkaban. I swear to God!” Patti usually made problems like these disappear for the powerful people. She sat on the edge on the bed when he pulled her away. Kingsley held her close. “I threw your damn ring away.” 

“I called you names for taking on the president’s campaign a few years ago. Not out loud.” He patted her head and relaxed when she laughed. One of the Aurors standing sentry shuffled their feet outside. Patti was solely American to solve their problems across the pond. Of course, whatever he’d called her, it was child’s play according to the American papers. “Someone called you a bursting blueberry.” 

“The _Gazette_?"She sat up straighter. 

“Yeah, that was funny. On the plus side, elections are starting up again, and I’m sure our friends in the States need comic relief. Stand by your man, your incumbent, and embody the red apple this time. For Rachelle.” Kingsley squeezed her shoulder. “We’ll find her.” 

"You're my man." She squeezed his hand, repeating his last words until she believed them. "We'll find her."

“Kingsley?” Harry pounded on the door. “Open up.” 

Kingsley answered the door. 

“Come with me.” Harry nodded at Patti, who got to her feet. Patti followed him, curious, still in her night things. Kingsley left the bedroom door open. When they entered the sitting room, Kingsley recognized the pale young man with grey eyes and blond hair. It was Draco Malfoy. Draco held Rachelle, who looked perfectly fine in his arms. “Look who I found.” 

“I think this little girl belongs to you,” said Draco, handing an old school bag to Harry. He spoke French with Rachelle, making her giggle madly. She wore a flowery dress, and stockings, and shoes Kingsley didn’t recognize, but she’d obviously made a new friend. 

Patti covered her mouth with a shaky hand. “Oh, my God. Thank God.” 

“She’s very pretty,” said Draco, handing her over to Kingsley. “There are green apples and digestive biscuits in the bag. I would’ve come last night, but I was pretty sure I was being watched.” 

“My Rachelle,” sighed Kingsley, breathing easier for the first time in days.

Kingsley kissed her on the cheek, and Patti sat on the couch, dry sobbing. As the Malfoy family had been acquitted in the Death Eater trials by none other than Harry Potter and his friends, Kingsley knew the Malfoys had no hand in this. It was the easiest trial thus far, and Kingsley himself had paid for Lucius’s new wand as a good faith gesture. The Malfoys were a lot of talk, no doubt, but they didn’t kidnap children and hold them hostage. Granted, they held people captive, but Lord Voldemort had controlled them towards the end, and they’d been forgiven. Kingsley himself had told the Wizengamot it sounded as though the Malfoys had been held prisoners within their own home. Lucius Malfoy, as Kingsley understood it, had disappeared into his manor after the war. 

He invited Draco inside. After he’d handed their girl off to her mother, Kingsley conjured tea and biscuits from the kitchen and sat in the coffee table. Feeling more at ease, Draco reached into the school bag and added the digestive biscuits to the mix. Rachelle curled up next to him, sandwiching herself between her mother and her new friend. 

“You want these?” Rachelle said please. Draco opened the digestive biscuits with his teeth and passed her a few. When Harry mentioned that Draco made an impressive babysitter, he said, “Shut up, Potter.”

“So, what happened?” Kingsley poured Draco tea with a shaky hand. 

“Well, I was on Knockturn Alley selling a few things to Mr. Borgin for my father,” said Draco, adding sugar to his cup. He waited, probably thinking he’d spoken out out of line here, but Kingsley assured him none of his dealings would reach Arthur Weasley’s ears. “And I ran into Nott with this little black girl, which I thought was odd, and I noticed she wouldn't say anything. Not in English, anyway.” 

Patti leaned over and kissed Rachelle on the cheek. Kingsley thought this was a rather clever move, something that would not have crossed his mind. Rachelle would’ve had to be smart enough to pick up on the fact that Nott didn’t speak a foreign tongue. When he reached over and gave Patti a firm handshake, everyone except the child laughed. When Rachelle asked what was so funny, they kept her in the dark. 

“She’s clever, my wife,” said Kingsley, raising his wand again and conjuring some Firewhisky and shot glasses. He poured with a generous hand, calling the household guard to join them in the sitting room. He passed the shots around, frowning when Patti declined. He apologized, and chased his shot with hers as they drank to Draco. Kingsley poured another round and passed these around. "Go on.” 

“ _Je parle assez français_. I speak enough French, enough to get by,” said Draco, following his explanation with its English translation. His face screwed up in concentration. “She kept telling me she’s not allowed to speak to strangers, and she was looking for the long bottom.” 

“Neville,” said Harry, grinning. 

“Oh. Yes, that makes much more sense now. Rachelle, I am cooler than Longbottom.” Draco returned to his story. Harry snorted. “When I told Nott I’d take care of it, although I have no idea what he thought I meant by it, Rachelle told me her father catches Dark wizards, and I guessed that was you. She gave me your full name before we Apparated here. Kingsley Isaiah Shacklebolt.” 

Kingsley beamed at his daughter. “Very good.” 

“Smartest three-year-old I’ve ever met in my life, although she can’t pronounce Isaiah,” said Draco, wearing a self-satisfied smile. “Do you quiz her over her morning porridge?” 

“They’re Aurors,” said Harry. 

Kingsley wasn’t as paranoid as Mad-Eye Moody, but he understood these things happened. Children wandered into their own worlds. With the war going on, even with her safely tucked away in the brownstone, he imagined the worse case scenarios. When she had started talking, whenever he could visit her on the weekends, he trained her like a parakeet. Kingsley gave her his name, his address, and his rank. Unless some twisted witch or wizard decided to turn the tables and perform Legilimency or other torture tactics on a little girl, he was fine. 

Before Draco left, Patti hugged him, crying again, and he patted her awkwardly on the back, telling her over and over again it was nothing. He opened the schoolbag and handed Rachelle a plush unicorn; she locked this thing in a death embrace. Harry left soon after, more receptive to Patti’s hug, and congratulated them on their new addition. 

Patti and Kingsley shushed him frantically and dismissed their security detail with Harry. Harry nodded, miming zipping his lips and chatted with the other Aurors as they stepped out into the night. Kingsley emptied the school bag, promising Rachelle she could have as many apples as she wished in the morning. Kingsley carried her up to bed after she’d shown him her trainer tying skills she’d learned from Draco. After he tucked her in and lit the bedside candle, he stepped over the threshold and rested his hands on Patti’s waist. Joking lightly about the ring, a family heirloom, they watched their daughter sleep.

Kingsley stayed late at the office at least four times a week. On nights like tonight, he wondered if it would have indeed been easier to take on this job as a bachelor. Of course, he hadn't known he was going to be Minister until he became Minister; this fell into his lap, and he went with it. He worked on Saturdays, too, which his wife had warned him about. Not the usual housewife, Patti had basically told him he only day off would be Sundays. Married was married, so unless this had happened almost six years ago, and it had not, he was taken.

Kingsley wasn’t some secretary pushing paper or a department head. As Minister for Magic, he worked for the people. It was better if he learned as he went along, so he approached this like any other challenge. When he’d first been assigned Sirius Black’s case, he hadn’t slept most nights. He’d given up his family for a supposed mass murder. When Sirius had caught word of his daughter, for Kingsley didn't tell anyone in the Order of the Phoenix about his family safely tucked away in the States, Sirius had sent Rachelle, a newborn, a rabbit plush toy.

As Kingsley worked at his desk, he watched Rachelle play with the thing, a smile on his face. Kingsley guessed this was where the rabbit theme got picked up. Kingsley had eventually learned from Remus Lupin that Sirius had sent the first one via Owl Order. Although he was never home, he snuck in to grab his daughter at night, always leaving a note on the counter for Patti, and ruined any hopes of a proper bedtime.

“Daddy, what’re you doing?” Rachelle asked this a lot.

“Same thing I was doing fifteen minutes ago,” he said, checking the clock on his desk. It was half past nine. He’d been Minister for Magic for about six months now; it mentally exhausted him. It was the beginning of November.

“Kingsley.” The portrait of Ulick Gamp made both Rachelle and Kingsley jump. “He wants a word.” 

Kingsley made a note in his paperwork, not looking at him right away. When Mr. Gamp repeated himself, Kingsley watched the figure in the portrait clean out his ear with the end of a quill. Rachelle waved at Mr. Gamp, and he ignored the child. Kingsley smiled. Tired as he was, Kingsley got to his feet and straightened Rachelle’s nightgown.

“Where’re we going?” Rachelle shook her head when Kingsley asked her to leave the stuffed rabbit behind, promising her it would still be there when they got back. Ulick Gamp disappeared from his canvas to announce the arrival of the Minister for Magic. “No! Blinky wants to go!”

Blinky the Bunny got a pass. Kingsley had no suit in his office. The Minister of Muggles had never not seen him in a suit. After reaching for the Floo powder on the fireplace mantlepiece, he tossed it into the flames, and they turned green. Scooping Rachelle up, Kingsley took Blinky and reminded her to hold on tightly. A minute later, after revolving in the flames, Kingsley stepped onto the Axminster, set Rachelle down, and brushed ash off his robes.

“Kingsley,” said the Minister of Muggles. He glanced at Rachelle. “Who’s this?”

“Marc, this is Rachelle, my daughter. Rachelle, say hello to Marc. Take your bunny.” Kingsley offered it to her. 

Kingsley enjoyed the rare privilege of actually being on a first-name basis with this man because Marc, it seemed, wasn’t completely afraid of him. Kingsley wore his wedding band on his hand nowadays. Marc had met Patti because she’d helped him out of a tight spot a couple months ago. She usually stuck to cleaning up messes in the magical community, but she’d done this for Kingsley. It helped relations between the wizards and the Muggles.

Rachelle said hello, thanking Marc when he went to grab another chair. When he returned to the office with a chair and some chocolate ice cream, she beamed at him.

“She’s cute. I have a niece,” said Marc, sitting behind his desk. Marc was a bachelor, a happy bachelor. He’d once told Kingsley he lacked the patience and the sense for a wife. He asked after Patti, remembering her name.

“Mama’s having a baby,” said Rachelle, speaking to no one in particular.

“I heard,” Marc said, bringing his hands together, turning back to Kingsley. Kingsley sighed, for he knew what was coming next. That look, that panicked, political figure caught with his trousers down expression, could only mean one thing. Kingsley crossed his legs, waiting. “Look, Kingsley …”

Kingsley revealed nothing. As much as he liked Marc, they were not friends. They were allies, perhaps acquaintances, though this stretched it. Clients, the people Patti took on, paid an impressive retainer. The fact that the Minister of Muggles didn't pay on his first go was a gift, really, although Kingsley didn’t know the story behind whatever went on. It was a one time courtesy. Yes, he recalled, that was how Patti had phrased it when she mentioned it.

“Prime Minister,” said Kingsley, going back to the formal tone. “Whatever you’ve done, and honestly, I don’t care, you have to request these services from my wife. Not me. I have nothing to do with her clients because I don’t need to know.”

He frowned. “Does she take on other, you know, people like me?” he asked awkwardly. The man knew what a Muggle was, but he chose not to add that word into his vocabulary. Kingsley understood why and didn’t press the matter. “She… she’s like me. She’ll understand." 

“I refer you back to my previous statement.” Kingsley hated when his press secretary popped into his head; he stole a favorite line of hers. He took a step back, thinking he sounded a little harsh. Really, they were two sides of the same coin, Kingsley and this man, and things went along smoother if they’d simply work together. What if Kingsley needed to cash in on a favor down the road? Rachelle climbed onto his lap, sleepy. “Marc.” 

“No, that’s good. Very good. You’re sounding like one of us.” Marc nodded, his agitation clearly on his face. He looked tired, too. Kingsley had to remind himself that they often shared similar experiences and downfalls. He readied himself for another go, not ready to admit defeat. “Is she that good at cleaning up because she’s a witch? Or is that natural? I bet you have no problems, eh?”

“I haven’t been in office long.” Kingsley took out his wand and gave it a casual flick. Blinky the Bunny zoomed into his hand. Kingsley wasn't high and mighty, although he fought to stay away from temptation and stayed above the fray. At the moment, especially with the title of “Caretaker Minister”, he felt like an overqualified housemaid more often than not. Since Marc went there and awaited some answer, feeling obliged, Kingsley got to his feet and said, “She keeps me on the right path, Patricia, and we’re happily married. I’ll ask her.”

 

Kingsley made no promises.

“Good, good,” said Marc, sounding relieved, getting to his feet after Kingsley reached in his robes and tossed some Floo powder into the dying flames. They shook hands before parting ways. “You take care of that little girl, Kingsley, and congratulations. You’re a fine man, you know, good people.”

Kingsley usually told his constituents the way it was because they were his voters. He didn’t often sugarcoat stuff because they trusted him. He might be a new player in this political game, yet he spotted the flowery fluff. He said good night and stepped into the fire. He vanished.

As Kingsley stepped into his sitting room, he reflected on the fact that he wasn't whatever people thought of whenever they thought of a politician. Yes, he had gone through the motions of a race and laid down his plan, but he didn't get motivated by the promises of others. There was work that needed to be done. He spotted Patti asleep on the couch, her feet on the coffee table. She raised her head a little when she spotted him, blurry eyed and still drowsy, but he shook his head and carried Rachelle off to bed before she trapped him into an interrogation.

Rachelle passed out as soon as her head hit the pillow. Lighting a candle, he left there door open and went to join his wife. She budged up, and Kingsley joined her on couch after he pointed his wand at the fireplace and gave the flames life. Patti waited up for him, as always, even though Kingsley insisted she never had to. 

“Let me get you some food,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. When Kingsley insisted he was fine, she patted him on the knee, heaved herself off the couch, and told him to take a bath. “I need to get up anyway.”

Kingsley smiled, guessing his foodie wife wanted a good excuse for a late night supper. He did as she asked and came back dressed in his bed things. When Rachelle had come along a few years ago, he’d missed this whole experience with Patti. He’d insisted on giving their daughter his mother’s name, though, despite the fact that Patti and the noble Rachel Shacklebolt, pureblood and entitled, rarely spoke to each other. 

“Your mother says I’m fat, and apparently, the public does, too. Rita Skeeter says so.” she said, unceremoniously digging into her own plate of bubble and squeak. Kingsley took his with thanks, confused, for she was no Leglimens, but he’d been thinking about his mother, too. Patti waved her fork at the evening paper. 

“You’re not fat,” he said calmly, feeding her the expected line. He glanced at a photograph of them attending a press conference outside London. Patti huffed. They ate in silence for a while, and he could tell she fumed over this. He decided he’d better humor her before she kept him up all night dealing with family drama. After grabbing seconds and putting her plate in the sink, he came back. “What did Mum say?” 

“Well, first off, you married a white, overweight woman, so nice going there,” said Patti, reading the paper. Kingsley took this as old, recycled news. He waited for the rest of it. They’d announced the pregnancy months ago, which Patti mentioned, but they didn’t do it properly. “You did not tell her.” 

Kingsley didn't see the problem here. “It was in the _Prophet_ and that feature they did on you in _Witch Weekly_.”

 

“No, no. You don’t understand.” Patti tapped her wand on the coffee table and tea appeared there. She pinched the bridge of her nose when Kingsley summarized the conversation a little, showing her he followed along. “Kingsley, you didn’t _tell_ her. She had to read about it, to hear about it in her circle.”

“And this is a problem,” he said to himself, lost.

“Yes. God!” Patti got up and said she was going to bed. Kingsley, tired of people at the moment, led her into the kitchen and washed the dishes. “You are a leader of the free world, a Brigadier, Kingsley, you can’t be this stupid. Come on.” 

Kingsley stood there. “Retired now, actually.”

“Not officially. You’re staying with those boys. You collect two pay checks from the government, which is another thing they are complaining about.” The dishes dried themselves. She pounded her fist on the countertop when he merely shrugged his shoulders. “It matters! Why can’t you see that? You serve the people. You serve at the pleasure of the people!”

“Pause.” Kingsley, dodging a midnight row, signaled for a time out. He’d pick this up again in the morning. “Go to bed. I’ll take the morning off, and we’ll hash this out.”

“Pause? You can’t place this on pause. You’re Minister for Magic, and life doesn't stop simply because you wish it. You can’t take the morning off. They own you.” As she turned away, Patti, furious, struggled to pull her arm away when Kingsley wrapped his fingers round her wrist. 

“Pause.” He spoke softly and kissed her. “This is just us. You and me. You cannot be my campaign manager. I need you to walk away from it. Be on my side.”

Patti crossed her arms when he let her go. Close to tears, or so he guessed, Patti found a carton of ice cream and fished a spoon out of the drawer. She always ate her feelings. Kingsley smiled, reminded of Rachelle. “Shut up. You want some? Cookies and creme? Really good.”

 

“Going for this fat thing?” He strode over and took a spoonful before he handed the spoon back to her. “That is good. You went to the shop for ice cream and nothing else?”

“You’re judging me. You think I care?” Patti tore into the brick and went to town when he shook his head. The papers didn’t bother her. In fact, as the in demand political strategist, they bored her most of the time. Kingsley’s mother, for whatever reason, got under her skin. He ended up paying for it. “Rita Skeeter actually said I’m fat in that article, and she called Rachelle an escape route. A distraction. I’m freezing that bitch.”

“Ah,” he said, glad they were getting down to what really bothered her. He stopped, genuinely curious, for he’d never witnessed anyone actually stop Rita Skeeter in her tracks. “Wait. You can do that?” 

“Kingsley, I kept the _New York Style_ from writing about President Whittler’s affair for a year and a half. Me? I’m extraordinary. I can play this game in my sleep, and Barnabas Cuffe fears me. This ends now.”

“You feel better now?” asked Kingsley, taking the spoon from her and tossing it in the sink. Patti put the ice cream back. He smiled, watching her head upstairs with a renewed confidence. Tomorrow would be interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I went through and restructured this things as I got complaints about the length of this thing. I want them to have similar word counts, so I'm working on that. Hope you enjoyed it. Let me know what you think.


	3. Best Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kingsley helps others along the way.

Giving out the excuse that his wife had fallen ill, Kingsley took off the following morning. He left their daughter with the press secretary. Penelope Clearwater had pretty much volunteered to adopt Rachelle when she joined the campaign effort months ago, and he took advantage of this for the day. He exploited his daughter's politeness and cuteness. Kingsley was officially Minister for Magic, and he refused to let some nanny raise his daughter. After disguising themselves in casual robes and traveling cloaks, he escorted Patti to Diagon Alley and requested a meeting with the editor. 

Kingsley hadn’t bothered with much of a costume, but Patti had gone from her natural auburn locks to bouncy, dark curls for the occasion. Kingsley admitted he liked her as a brunette. In her Auror training, Patti had breezed through the Concealment and Disguise requirement, probably only ever bested by the likes of Nymphadora Tonks or Frank Longbottom. There was no hiding the pregnancy, but she wore one of his traveling cloaks. 

“It’s dragging on the floor.” Kingsley had always been rather fastidious about his clothes. 

When she fixed this with a simple spell, he stopped complaining. Kingsley’s request got shot down, a move he’d expected, but Rita Skeeter spotted them as she slipped something into her crocodile skin handbag. Without even having to ask, she swept them into her office. Rita saw right through Patti’s disguise, and she laughed when Patti asked to speak with Barnabas Cuffe. Patti answered with a spot on imitation of the annoying false chuckle. 

“Miss Skeeter, you think I’m asking. I am not being cute.” Patti declined a chair and stared her down. When Rita Skeeter fed her the same line the receptionist had said about the editor being a busy man, Patti gestured at Kingsley and slammed her fist on Rita’s desk. “You tell Barnabas I will take this place down brick by brick, for I shall make such a scene. You tell him Patricia Strauss wants a word.” 

Rita, nonplussed, sat down behind her desk. “I’d love an interview with the Minister’s wife.” 

“No comment. Do not toy with me. I’m the reason this paper exists whenever there’s a word on the political grapevine.” Patti glared at Kingsley when he cleared his throat and pointed. “What?” 

A heavyset man in honeycomb colored robes stood in the corridor. He reminded Kingsley strikingly of a taller Professor Slughorn. He had bloodshot eyes, probably from reading all the time. Kingsley imagined a nice, fat toffee. Rita Skeeter’s office door stood ajar, and Mr. Cuffe’s double chin quivered when he spotted Patti. Rita invited him inside, giving Patti a simpering smile. 

Kingsley raised his eyebrows when Mr. Cuffe went straight for Patti. 

“Miss Strauss. Or is it Mrs. Shacklebolt?” Mr. Cuffe kissed her hand. 

“You know, when my daughter, a child, a child, Barnabas, shows up in this paper, I have to wonder why I bothered patching up the holes.” Getting down to business, Patti sat down again, placing one leg behind the other one. “Who buried Cornelius Fudge’s mistakes?” 

“Madam, you’re a political figure,” chuckled Rita patronizingly, fingering her Quick Quotes Quill. “It is to be expected.” 

“You are a fucking idiot,” said Patti, half-rising from her chair until Barnabas Cuffe placed his meaty hands on her shoulders. Despite his impressive girth, he’d managed to squeeze himself in front of the desk. 

“Rita, if we could have the room?” Mr. Cuffe waited for Rita to walk around the desk. Realizing she had no dog in this fight, she stopped at the threshold. “Go into the conference room, please, and leave the Quill.” 

“She represents the people,” said Rita, pouting. 

Patti folded her arms over her belly. “I save politicians from hanging themselves, Miss Skeeter, whilst you weave that lovely noose. You destroy the people.” 

“Barnabas,” said Rita, turning towards her employer hoping for an ally. 

“Mr. Cuffe.” Patti, ignoring Kingsley’s patient protests, got to her feet. “Sex scandal. Who made that go away?” 

“Rita, you are not allowed to repeat anything she just said. Get out!” Mr. Cuffe slammed the door in her face and cast a Silencing Charm. He turned to face Patti, his face deathly pale. He licked his lips and rubbed his hands together, not meeting Kingsley’s eyes. “What can I do for you, Patricia?” 

“She needs to go. Bury her, fire her, Barnabas, or I swear to God!” Patti took deep, calming breaths. Kingsley wasn’t sure, but he imagined her slowly counting to ten. Barnabas leaned against the closed door. “This is why the Healer told me to take it easy and step away.” 

“I think so,” said Kingsley. He’d been telling her this for weeks. 

“Barnabas, this country is being held together by a very delicate thread. Do you wish for everything we’ve done in the past six months to be undone? You want Britain in free fall ?” Patti walked behind Rita’s desk without invitation and splayed her fingers on its polished surface. “Lord Voldemort took away your freedom of speech. You want that?” 

“No, ma’am.” Mr. Cuffe stood up straighter. 

“Everyone wants gets back to normal. I get that. Do you think I want to raise my children in this madness? We are doing what we can. I don’t sleep. Kingsley is letting you, the leaders, drag him through the mud.” Patti held up a hand to silence Kingsley. “He’s not a politician, but he can save you.” 

“It’s fine.” Kingsley ignored her hand and smiled reassuringly at the editor. “I took on this responsibility.” 

“Is it? Barnabas, you’re killing me! And that bimbo!" Patti blinked her eyes furiously, and the water works broke through her defenses. Kingsley said this happened a lot lately. Luckily, she’d not lost control over a press conference or a state dinner yet. Mr. Cuffe, way out of his depth here, simply stood there like a boy caught in a wrongdoing. “Every press conference, every time we rehearse, it’s for you! I starved myself yesterday for you and this stupid paper. And then you let that woman pull this?” 

“The paper needs to sale,” said Mr. Cuffe, talking business. 

“Your paper? It used to be the gold standard. You’re letting her shit all over it. How dare you? Remember when I gave you the first quote?” Patti mirrored his nod. She walked back around the desk and faced him. “What happened to you? What happened to responsible, reputable journalism?” 

Barnabas Cuffe floundered around for an answer, any answer, and got nowhere. 

“You can come after me for a fat fluff piece. Call me a trophy wife. Call me the Minister’s wife ushering in obesity for all I care. I’m seven months pregnant, but hey, it’s whatever.” Patti checked her handbag and walked towards the door. The editor, bolder than Kingsley guessed by his first impression, didn’t step aside. “Go after my children or my husband again, Barnabas, and I will release hell on earth. Especially with Skeeter. Are we clear?” 

Barnabas Cuffe shuffled off to the side when Kingsley stood. They shook hands, and the editor of the _Daily Prophet_ issued an impressive apology. Kingsley, taken aback by Patti’s confidence, accepted. 

“So, when the baby arrives?” Barnabas rubbed his hands together, genial once more when Patti’s anger evaporated. She cooled down.

Kingsley said it was a little early to make such arrangements, his polite way of saying no. Patti, taking Kingsley’s hand, rolled her eyes. Ever the businessman with a plan, Barnabas Cuffe would want an exclusive interview on the newest member of the Minister for Magic’s family. The last thing that Kingsley saw this baby as was political capital. He’d think about it. If they fought to keep Rachelle out of the papers, they couldn’t very well pretend his pregnant wife, who stood by his side day in and day out  
would hide this baby away. 

“You are the people for the people,” Barnabas pressed on. Kingsley saw the point. 

“Fine, but you do the interview in the comfort of our home. You.” Patti opened the door and waited until the editor accepted the assignment. He suggested three handpicked photographers. Patti hugged him before they left the office. 

Amazed, Kingsley walked out of the _Daily Prophet_ without being plied by reporters and photographers. Patti acted like this was any other day. She was simply putting out fires wherever they cropped up. She was so much more than an ornamental Minister’s wife. They stopped outside Florean Fortescue’s ice cream parlor, and he got her a dark chocolate raspberry yogurt. 

“You are seriously pushing it,” she said, although she took the sweet treat, too. Kingsley didn't worry about toeing the line with her. She blushed when he watched her licking the stuff off her hand as they walked around Diagon Alley. “I think you really want a fat wife.” 

“It’s low-fat yogurt,” said Kingsley, kissing her on the cheek. “I have to get to the office after I Apparate home and change. I love you. You’ve got Rachelle?” 

“Uh huh. Love you, too,” said Patti. She waited until Kingsley got down to Quality Quidditch Supplies before calling after him. “Mr. Shacklebolt?” 

Kingsley spun around, a quizzical look on his face. 

“Tell your press secretary we’ve got this handled! You’ve got this.” 

He threw up a double thumbs up, a gesture he usually reserved for Penelope. Patti laughed, although at this distance, he couldn’t hear it. Kingsley kept walking and passed through the old brick barrier into Muggle London. 

 

He needed her. Kingsley wasn't so handicapped he couldn't function without Patti with him, yet she gave him courage. He was a confident man. How many Dark wizards had he taken down? As he strode into the Ministry, entering Auror Headquarters shortly past eleven o'clock, Kingsley nodded to his officers, his people. As Brigadier, technically he was the highest ranked official on the floor. He'd climbed through the ranks, accepting promotion after promotion, though he could hardly pretend there weren't costs. 

He went into the Annex. Rodolphus Lestrange, sallow skinned and half-starved, sat in one of the interrogation partitions on a metal table. Harry Potter sat on the other side. Kaspar Williamson paced in the background. He watched everything like a hawk, especially with the three new recruits. Nobody new joined the ranks just yet because the aptitude tests and entrance exams needed service tweaking. Kingsley rapped his knuckles against the glass, shaking his finger at Harry when he pointed his wand at the Death Eater's chest. 

Kaspar, catching this, yanked Harry's arm down. Kingsley stepped inside without an invitation. 

"Minister, how's the wife? And the little girl? Rachelle, is it?" Rodolphus welcomed the distraction as the chains rattled around his ankles and wrists. "These are uncomfortable." 

"How's your wife?" asked Kaspar conversationally, turning the question back on Rodolphus. He stroked his chin as if trying to remember something. "Oh, that's right, sir, she's no longer with us. Regrettably. My condolences." 

Rodolphus shrugged. "Bellatrix never was my wife, and she certainly wasn't mine in the end." 

Harry slipped his wand back into his robes. Whatever he'd learned whilst out there on his own, they did not torture first and ask questions later within the walls of the Ministry. Kingsley saw no good in cursing a chained, bound man. Kingsley seriously doubted that Harry crossed this line. These lines, defined as they were, appeared blurred after hours of interrogation. 

"Harry, take a break." Kingsley immediately took point on this. 

"I'm fine," said Harry. 

"Mr. Potter, you are speaking to your commander. Recognize." Kaspar's eyes flashed. Harry got up and left without an apology. The invisible barrier sealed itself after he slammed the door. The barrier rippled, and sound got blocked on the other side. Kaspar crossed his legs. 

"Oh, a chat with the Minister. Aren't I special?" Rodolphus smiled when Kingsley sat opposite him. 

Kingsley conjured a plastic cup and filled it with cold water using a nonverbal Aguamenti Charm and a Freezing Charm. Rattling it a little so Roldophus heard the ice cubes settle on the bottom, Kingsley it on the table just out of the prisoner's reach. "You are a means to an end. "Are you hungry?" 

"You won't break me," hissed Rodophus. 

"No, no, I won't, but I know how Kaspar operates. I'm not the good interrogator here, Mr. Lestrange, because I give him free reign." Kingsley conjured a plate of plain sandwiches. "When did he last eat, Kaspar? Last night?" 

"No, he threw it at the guard in Azkaban," said Kaspar. Unlike Kingsley, he didn't really agree with replacing the Dementors with Aurors, especially when they were spread then in their ranks, but he held his tongue for the time being. 

Kingsley handed Rodolphus a sandwich. Roldophus had recently taken a shower. Whilst Azkaban had a reputation for being an awful place, they had facilities and gave their inmates recreational hours. They surrendered their wands for obvious reasons, but there were activities like wizard's chess and Gobstones. There was a library in the fortress, too. During the transition, because these things took time, both Aurors guarded the prison, and there had been few problems. 

Roldophus fought the urge, but he eventually took the food. 

Kingsley nodded. He handed the plate to Kaspar. 

"Okay, let's talk." Kingsley sat back, feigning weariness. He'd went out like a light last night, and he'd silenced the alarm clock. Kaspar crossed the room. If Rodolphus were a smart man, he'd grasp the secret; answers equalled food. Maybe better living conditions. Kingsley took out his wand and magicked a roll of parchment. He would've gone with a trusty legal pad, but he didn't want to catch any flack from Kaspar. "You said you had names." 

Rodolphus grinned at him, his lips cracked. "Who do you want and what's it worth to you?" 

Kingsley understood things like currency, trade, and man's word worked differently within the society of the prison. He'd stayed in a cell, disguised, of course, for a week, last September. He'd arranged it so that Ron Weasley caught him as petty thief stealing a Class C substance; Kingsley suspected Ron still had no idea he'd locked up the Minister for Magic a couple months ago. True, Kingsley's stint had been a short one, but it gave him insight. He was scheduled for another visit in January. 

Kingsley had no idea how they had managed it, given that both the brother and sister were under the Cruciatus Curse and the Imperius Curse, respectively, and they'd been caught in a net cast by Minerva McGonagall in the Battle of Hogwarts, but the Carrows had somehow alluded capture and fled the scene. Greyback, luckily, had not survived, or he'd be at the top of the list. Thinking this through carefully, Kingsley nodded at Kaspar. 

"You want cigarettes and a lighter?" He placed an offer on the table. 

Kingsley would have to get his hands on a charmed lighter that only ignited when in contact with filter paper. Rodolphus, before he'd been forced to kick the habit, had smoked like a chimney. Kingsley would negotiate with Mundungus to get his hands on a lighter. He didn't even know if such a trinket existed, for he wasn't a smoker. He tried once or twice, but the stuff never really appealed to him. A health nut, as Kaspar often reminded him, Kingsley stayed away from a lot of vices. As he sat there crafting a plan, he guessed he could possibly get Arthur Weasley to make one. A cigarette lighter was a Muggle contraption. 

Rodolphus chewed on this for a moment. He'd been inside before, so he knew how this worked. The said truth about the prison system, especially with the Death Eaters, is a lot of them had been there before. Kingsley himself hadn't imagined Lord Voldemort as a charismatic leader. The Lestrange brothers, the other one already in custody, did not understand the real world.

Rodolphus clenched and unclenched his fist rhythmically, asking for more. He knew they were going to throw him back into a cell, and he wanted leverage.

"I will consider a shot at parole," said Kaspar finally. The way he say it made it clear; he would not sweeten the deal anymore. Kingsley offered Rodolphus nothing more. Kaspar sounded knackered. 

"Three hours recreational time," added Rodolphus. There was no harm in a feeble, last minute attempt. 

"You? No. Moving on." Kaspar recovered from his lapse, like tripping over his feet. Kingsley's mind inevitably went to another place. Why would be need that time? "Kingsley, what do you want?" 

Rodolphus tapped the table with his fingers, the chain rattling on the table surface. 

"Two things. First, I want the Carrows," demanded Kingsley, ignoring Rodolphus when he said this counted as two. Not for the first time, Kingsley reflected that he was glad he sat across from Mr. Lestrange and not his maniacal wife because this would've never flown with Bellatrix. Kaspar reached in his robes and slammed a parcel of cigarettes and a book of matches on the table. "And I want Mr. Nicolas Nott." 

"Ah." Rodolphus opened the parcel and lit one. "We all know why that is. Lost your precious princess? Who found her, I wonder? This isn't a full parcel, Williamson." 

"Shut up," said Kaspar. 

"That's neither here nor there," said Kingsley, offering his hand. He'd protect Draco as if he were one of his Aurors. They'd been searching for Nott for months. Ron was on that team. "Are we agreed?" 

"Agreed." He didn't bother shaking Kingsley's hand after he gathered his loot. "Not today, gentlemen. I need to think about this." 

"Fine." Kaspar heaved him from the chair and shoved him towards the door none too gently. They disappeared. When the sound of their footsteps quieted and the doors to Auror Headquarters slammed shut, Kingsley left the interrogation room after wrapping a couple sandwiches in a napkin. 

 

"Harry?" He looked around. Aurors sat in their scattered cubicles. Kingsley went to find Harry, who sat at Kingsley's old work station. Some of Sirius's old photographs still covered the walls, including the diagram of the motor bike. Kingsley set the sandwiches by Harry's elbow. "The pick of the litter, and you chose this one. You know, I have motor bike manuals stashed in the right bottom drawer." 

"You're that much of a perfectionist? Kingsley, when you commit," said Harry, a little dejected, though he went snooping nonetheless. He tossed a few of them onto the desk and pushed back the swivel chair. "Yeah, I'm going to need one of your aides to clean this stuff out. It's so organized I'm afraid to touch anything." 

Kingsley drew a large box out of thin air and started casting simple spells. All of his stuff spilled into it, pell mell. He'd sort it out later. "Done." 

"Thanks." Harry set his teacup on top of his paperwork. "What'd I do wrong?" 

"Harry, don't act like that. You're new at this. All of you. Hang on." Kingsley stepped out for a minute and grabbed Neville and Ron. He ushered them in like sardines and stood outside the cubicle; Ron parked himself on Harry's desk. Kingsley, checking his watch, clapped his hands together. "Okay I have nine minutes. Let's hash this out." 

"Hashing out again? What'd we do, mate?" Ron turned to Harry. When Harry shrugged apathetically. "He always comes to you first." 

"Eight minutes. And you didn't do anything wrong. Not really. Ron, nice job on the paperwork because you're making Kaspar jealous." Kingsley had no idea where he'd picked that up. Neville, I know you like your plants, but we can't take those home once the case has gone cold. Or a case gets solved. They stay in the research files in the Annex, buddy." 

Harry and Ron grinned, giving Neville away. 

"Okay." Neville's ears reddened. Before Kingsley could move on, he raised his hand like a schoolboy. Kingsley, a little confused, turned from Harry back to Neville. "I'd like to say that you're releasing a lot of carbon dioxide in a confined area, and it makes more sense to take samples and stick them in baggies. Then attach those samples to the facts. Not to mention the other stuff. I mean, Paul almost got attacked by a sapling of Devil's Snare, and it's thriving in the dark filing cabinet. And the plants are dying. That's like _murder_ , Kingsley. Minister." 

Neville tacked on that last bit after giving his passionate defense, probably thinking he'd angered Kingsley when he had not. Harry snickered, but he gave Neville a thumbs up all the same. Kingsley asked Harry for parchment and scribbled down his interrogation critique before thrusting it back at him. Kingsley gave Neville the floor. 

"If and when you find the time, Neville, you can add that as your pet project. Clear it with Kaspar, all right?" Why not? Nobody else was going to fret over plants. Neville beamed at him. Kingsley nodded, taking that as good enough. He patted the side of the cubicle and picked up his box. "Good meeting. If you need me ..."

"...you know where to find me," they said together, reciting the rest of the old line in dead voices.

 

Kingsley used to pass people off as procrastinators whenever he heard them say they'd sleep when they were dead. There were twenty-four hours in the day, every day, and once every four years, another one got added to the calendar. It was a person's choice to decide whatever to do with the time he or she was given. This was another lesson he'd taken from his father, the scientist. Since he'd joined ranks as Minister, which wasn't even a rank, time got sucked through a vacuum. 

He needed more of it. 

 

Minister for Magic, he'd decided, was too much for a regular man to handle. A man or a woman. He jumped through hoops in this obstacle course and negotiated right, left, and centre. Did he fear being tossed out on his behind? No, not really. By mid-December, he did what he swore he would never do when they moved into the new house. After they closed that deal, Patti and Kingsley told each other the house was their Christmas present. A house-elf came with it, too, something Kingsley put his foot down about first, but it was an early Christmas present from his parents. (Kingsley downright refused to call the house-elf his house warming gift because the idea disturbed him on so many levels.) The house-elf was one of the daughters of the house-elf that served his mother at Heather House. 

"Heather House? You lived in a House with a name?" Patti stripped the bed and tossed the linens onto the floor. The house-elf, Posey, gathered them. 

"You knew that," said Kingsley, poking his head out of the bathroom as he brushed his teeth. 

"I didn't. I thought it was like a friend's or an aunt's place." Patti tossed the pillows onto a heap and thanked Posey when she leant a hand in making the bed with a clean bed set. 

"Mistress Patti needs to rest," said Posey, fluffing the pillows. 

"I feel fine," said Patti. 

Patti sat down in a chair and closed her eyes for a moment. She wasn't angry with the house-elf. Kingsley had good reason to believe Patti actually liked having help around the house. When Kingsley came out in his dress robes, she frowned at him. Posey went to start the wash and returned holding a delicate full length burgundy gown above her head. Kingsley retreated back into the bathroom to grab his jewelry and came back to see her in formal dress. 

"Mistress Patti is lovely," said the house-elf. Posey opened a jewelry box and placed a wooden heart-shaped pendant around her neck. 

"Where did you get that?" Patti turned in the chair and gave Kingsley the look. "No Christmas gifts. Except for Rachelle." 

"It's not a Christmas gift," said Kingsley. She really flew off the broom handle at every little thing. They were going to a few Christmas parties this evening because he needed to make appearances as Minister. "Thank you, Posey." 

"Yes, Master Kingsley." The house-elf left with a curtsy. 

"Well, that's ..." Patti opened her handbag and flipped through a pocket-sized calendar. "Damn it. I forgot."

"Six years. Happy Anniversary, my bride." Kingsley moved her hair aside and kissed her neck. He waved her apology away. "If it's any consolation, Penelope reminded me and went to fetch your gift at the jeweler's." 

She patted his cheek. "You are so worth it." 

Kingsley smiled, glad all was forgiven. He threw out what he thought she'd shoot down as an awful plan. Kingsley usually celebrated Christmas alone, and despite his act, he enjoyed spending the holidays alone because it gave him time to recharge. Sometimes, he didn't even bother heading to New York to visit the girls, and Patti usually let this slide. Without warning, he swept her into his arms, careful to lift with his legs, and placed her on the bed. 

"What're you doing? We're expected in the city in a half hour." Patti laughed when Kingsley took off his watch, set it on the bedside table, and kicked off his dress shoes. When he crawled into bed and started kissing her, she relaxed. "You're blowing them off? Malfoy Manor? The gala? Everyone?" 

"Looks like it."' Kingsley took the clip out of his wife's hair. "Remember that weekend in New York?" 

"When I had pneumonia and never left the bed?" 

"Neither did I." Kingsley glossed over the rougher parts of that disappointment rendezvous romantic shut in. 

Well, this wasn't strictly true because Kingsley had fetched her potions, and soup, and blankets, and things. He paid for it because she'd shared her germs, and he hadn't realized it until he got back to London the following Monday. The false trail for Sirius had gotten really interesting that week in particular, and Kingsley had been surprised he hadn't been caught with his grave mistakes for he'd certainly made them. Patti kissed him, and Kingsley liked that she'd given in and let him skive off on work for an evening.

Kingsley needed an excuse, a good one; the baby came as a readymade story. 

"No, they'll want the records from St. Mungo's even if it's a false alarm." Patti placed her hand behind her neck. 

Kingsley snapped his fingers. "What about the clause sealing healing records? The patient Healer confidentiality clause?" 

"Kingsley, you are such a political fledgling. It's almost adorable." Patti rolled her eyes when he obviously didn't get it. He caught the first year Auror reference, but he didn't understand why this wouldn't provide an alibi. "The Minister for Magic's baby born prematurely at Christmastime? The hospital records would be leaked like that." 

She snapped her fingers and called for the house-elf. "Posey?" 

The house-elf Apparated by her side. Kingsley fought a smile, thinking Posey fretted over this baby more than anyone else in the family. "Mistress Patti? You is running late for engagements." 

"If anyone asks, especially the press secretary," said Patti. 

Kingsley interrupted her as he upped the ante. "Only the press secretary. Only Penelope Clearwater."

Patti raised her eyebrows, impressed, and found her handbag and took out a green envelope and a small wrapped parcel. "If the press secretary asks, and only if she asks, tell her I'm having back pains and we will not be attending any galas this evening. Give her these invitations for her friends or family, please." 

"Posey will personally deliver them to Miss Clearwater." The house-elf bowed her head. "Will Mistress be needing anything else when Posey returns?"

"Whatever you want to make is fine. There's a leftover baguette in the bread box." Patti thanked her, and Posey Disapparated with a loud crack. Kingsley called Patti a masterful liar. "I'm a self-destructive fool. I'm not in the mood to play the Minister's wife this evening." 

Kingsley wasn't aware this was a thing. She was an Auror, yes, but he thought she'd seriously had to work to fool him. "You do that a lot?"

"Oh, yeah. All the time. There's a line we cross in London, and boom, I'm the Minister's wife. Not your wife." Patti squealed with laughter, catching Kingsley's pained expression. "You know when this marriage is going to get fun? At our fifteenth anniversary when we're going deaf." 

"And Rachelle hates us? Because she's not allowed to date until she's thirty? Can you imagine her bringing someone home to meet us?" Kingsley genuinely felt sorry for that bloke. Patti struggled to gasp for air and said she didn't want to piss herself, so Kingsley helped her out of the bed and unzipped the dress. Stepping out of the evening dress, covered by slip underneath, Patti left the bathroom open, still laughing. "Are you all right? Breathe, Patricia, Jesus." 

"Yeah." Patti came out after washing her hands. When he walked over and massaged her shoulders, she said, "I gave Mr. Malfoy your father's alchemical journals, Kingsley. You should talk with him." 

The journals were copies of the originals. Kingsley father left those under lock and key in the library. "I can't."

"Why not?" Patti glanced at him, disappointed. "I know I have problems with your mother, Rachel, Kingsley, but you love Ezra. We love Ezra." 

"No, no, Patti, you misunderstand me. I'm not Ezra. He needs Ezra." Kingsley, who never spoke against his quiet, intellectual father, smiled when she opened her mouth and no words came out. "If he's serious about taking this on, there's a world Draco needs to know. He shall find his way." 

Patti exhaled a shaky laugh. When he turned around to face her, she wrapped his arms around his neck. "Are all the men in your family this brilliant?" 

"That word is often abused." 

Kingsley doubted whether people, himself included, truly grasped the weight behind it. Sure, people said Professor Dumbledore was brilliant, and perhaps they were right. Few people had really known that man. Kingsley had not. His father, Ezra, searched the world for answers, and he as sharp as they came, though Ezra himself had said he was no sorcerer. 

Kingsley got lost in his thoughts for a moment. "Tell Ezra." 

"About Draco? Oh, Kingsley, it's not my place to suggest to your father to take on an apprentice. Nor yours. What if Draco doesn't want to go that far?" Patti shook her head. 

"No. This." Kingsley placed his hand on her belly. "He converted to Catholicism because of Nicolas Flamel. I doubt he believes. Did you know that?" 

"No. Seriously? That man attends Mass three times a week." 

"Oh, he's devout. Don't tell him I told you that. You don't have to be religious to be an alchemist. Professor Dumbledore was not. But it helps. Faith helps." Kingsley did not know why, and he couldn't explain to properly enough to give it justice. Patti, seeming to understand this, did not press him further. He pressed his lips to her forehead. "Life matters to Ezra. Invite him for Christmas." 

Kingsley started towards the kitchen. 

Patti called after him. "I suppose that means Rachel as well?" 

"We did name our child after her, did we not? Get over it." Kingsley jumped, startled when Posey Apparated and took over his work station in the kitchen. She spoke well of Penelope and started on dinner. The baguette sliced itself when she placed it on a cutting board next to a blade. Kingsley liked her. "How is Hokey?" 

"Mother is well, and she will be pleased to hear Master Kingsley asked after her," said Posey. She made a salad without being asked. "Mother says Master Ezra says rabbit food is Master Kingsley's favorite." 

"Yeah, that hasn't changed." Kingsley prepped the veg. This, too, chopped itself on the cutting board. "You were served my father whilst you were trained?" 

"Yes," she said. Her eyes got large. "Why does Master Kingsley ask?" 

"He's left handed. Like me. My father would've gone though the trouble of asking you to stand to his right. He's meticulous." Kingsley figured Posey knew this already. 

Kingsley laughed as he watched the house-elf make beer braised rabbit. She sped up the cooking somehow, for she probably worried that her mistress was hungry. The alcohol, most of it, the house-elf explained as she danced around the kitchen, doing this or that, cooked off. Kingsley was a cook, but he cooked for a bachelor, and food was food in a pinch. He admired the house-elf's technique. Although she was young, really young, she'd picked up things in the kitchen and learned fast. 

"The mistress likes food. It's a weakness," Kingsley warned Posey. She'd emptied two bottles of beer into the pot and offered him the third one. "Thank you." 

"You is welcome." Posey checked her rabbit. "Miss Rachelle is learning to read?" 

"Yes. Rachelle. Oh, Rachelle!" Kingsley glanced over his shoulder to make sure the coast was clear. He lowered his voice, even though his little girl was nowhere in sight. She was probably playing in the nursery. He chuckled, unable to stop himself. "Posey, you cannot tell her this is rabbit. She'll panic if she hears she's having Blinky the Bunny's cousin for dinner." 

"Posey can make something else." The house-elf made to toss the dish she'd been working on for a half hour. 

"No." Kingsley regretted saying anything. He took a swig of beer. "Just tell her it's chicken, please." 

"Rabbit is chicken, Master Kingsley, rabbit is chicken." Posey grinned toothily at him. Kingsley nodded. He offered to help her, although he knew she'd turn him down. She did. "Posey thinks Kingsley is like Master Ezra, though he doesn't see it. Master Ezra talks about him always." 

Kingsley finished his beer and set his empty bottle aside. Although he'd asked Patti to do this, he drafted a letter to his father and sent it off with an owl. He hadn't written his father since before the end of the war, for he was awful with keeping in touch, so there a lot of news to cover. 

"I miss him. I'm inviting him for Christmas." 

Kingsley left the window open. Patti came downstairs with Rachelle following close behind. The house-elf set the table and they dug in. Kingsley insisted Posey eat with them. Rachelle set Blinky the Bunny on the table and offered her friend a bite of "chicken". Before Patti took her first bite, both of them determinedly not looking at their daughter, Kingsley choked on his wine.


	4. Cost of Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kingsley realizes something when he sits down with Barnabas Cuffe.

Rachelle woke them up early on Christmas Day. She jumped on the bed and startled Kingsley and Patti so badly they both instinctively reached for their wands on their bedside tables. This was an official day off for the government. Having worked for the government his whole life, Kingsley knew this, but this was the first time he really, really appreciated it. 

When Patti groaned and told Rachelle to settle down, Kingsley intervened. “Easy, Rachelle." 

When Kingsley got out of bed, Patti sank into it, retreating, enveloped by its warmth. Rachelle, bouncing off the walls with excitement, zoomed out of the bedroom. Kingsley didn't back down when Patti covered her head with the pillow and said it smelled like him. 

"Five more minutes." Patti rolled over with difficulty. 

"It's Christmas Day, madam, act like it," Kingsley coaxed her. 

Kingsley offered a hand and helped her out of the bed. He'd been on tour in Azkaban in a few weeks time, so he fought to make the most of the holidays. They'd be attending Mass soon. They got dressed on Muggle clothes, and Kingsley shouted at Posey not to let Rachelle open the gifts. When they got downstairs and Rachelle asked why, threatening a tantrum. It came on in a flash, fake tears and everything. Kingsley stood back for a fraction of a second, sandwiched between two emotional women. He was still getting used to full-time fatherhood. 

"Rachelle." Patti knelt awkwardly on the floor. When Rachelle didn't stop, she shook her a little, startling her. Posey rushed over, fidgeting, but Patti put her foot down. "Rachelle Shacklebolt, you stop this young lady, and pull yourself together. Mass comes before presents. Stop it."

"But, Mama..." Rachelle tried to pull away. 

"Rachelle, no! Mass, presents with breakfast, dinner, Evening Mass, dessert." Patti insisted on this. 

Patti took Kingsley's hand and clambered to her feet. She and Rachelle followed the same Christmas Day timetable, and Kingsley wasn't stupid enough to ask her to break the rules. Or bend them. His father couldn't get out of Cairo for the day, but he'd made arrangements to be in London for the new year. Without her husband as a buffer, Kingsley knew that his mother wasn't coming to London, either, so it was a quiet Christmas. When the Ministry car arrived, Kingsley bid his time snd snatched a couple small parcels from underneath the Christmas tree. Before he stepped outside into the cold, Kingsley handed Posey the house-elf one and pecked her on the cheek. 

"Thank you, Master," said the house-elf. 

"No, thank you. You're amazing." Kingsley rarely told her this, and he had never forgotten Hokey on this day. When the driver honked his horn, Kingsley got in the back of the car and waited until Patti got lost looking out of the passenger window before he snuck the present to Rachelle, placing a finger on his lips. 

There were fewer cameras, but they were there. After Mass, Kingsley snuck his family outside the back. He'd told Father Ryan he was a member of Cabinet. Technically, he was. He just had nothing to do with the Muggle Parliament. When they reached the house, Kingsley stood with his family on the front steps. Patti, placing a hand on her belly, waved with her other hand, smiling warmly. 

"Wave." Kingsley placed a hand on Rachelle's shoulder. She moved her arm like a robot. So much for a peaceful day off. Tucking his Rosary away in his suit, he cleared his throat, and addressed the gathering crowd. "Thank you. We wish you all a Happy Christmas and a Happy New Year. Thank you for spending it with us." 

Preferring very much to be left alone in his hidey hole, Kingsley lied. This was his first Christmas with Rachelle. Whilst he didn't like the holiday season, she and her mother lived for this stuff. On Christmases past, masquerading as a bachelor, Kingsley usually went to Mass first thing, although he rose early for service, returned home and paraded around in his pajamas until an unreasonable hour, and got dressed again to attend Evening Mass. 

When they turned around to head back inside, he said, "Patti, next year, we're attending Mass at dawn." 

"Mass at dawn," she repeated. Patti unlocked the door and ushered Rachelle inside. 

It came out of nowhere. Kingsley rested his hand on Patti's back and a sensation like fire shot up his spine like a flame licking a candlewick. Kingsley gasped, surprised, and pushed Patti to the ground as she shouted _Protego_ , aiming her wand at the entrance. It flashed purple and sealed itself. Patti laid her arms out on the pavement, one over the other. She dropped her wand. As he went to grab for his wand, Kingsley felt two other hits, one right after the other, grip his entire body. The crowd screamed. Crying bloody murder and grabbing her wand, Patti crawled with him, inch by inch, and dragged him into the house as another curse or spell bounced off the barrier. 

Patti set a rod aside. He'd screamed like a wounded animal when she pulled the thing out. 

"Patti, Patti, shhhh. Shhhh." Kingsley reached out to Rachelle, who cowered by the wardrobe. Patti would scare their daughter to death if she carried on like this. The press alone outside bothered him. Posey sealed the front door and the magical deadbolts locked themselves into place. He reached up and brushed Patti's face, his legs dead weight and twitching painfully. "Are you all right? The baby?" 

"I'm fine. Kingsley." Her face drenched in sweat. 

"Posey. Take Rachelle into her bedroom. You wait there, and you do _not_ leave!” Kingsley didn't look away from his wife. Posey did as she was ordered, grabbing Rachelle and Disapparating with a faint pop. "Patti, breathe. We're fine." 

She shook her head, hysterical. He got her to calm down enough to contact Kaspar Williamson via the Floo Network, although he doubted whether Kaspar understood more than a few words because she sobbed through the explanation. The blood on her dress would be enough. Kingsley felt his stained shirt after spotting her ruined maternity dress; he hadn't even realized he was bleeding. 

Kaspar arrived in minutes with a pale Harry Potter by his side. 

"An assassination attempt on Christmas Day. Christmas Day." Shaking, Kingsley winced when Kaspar picked him up. Harry magicked a white bed sheet and draped it over the couch before they laid Kingsley down. 

"Made it to Mass yet?" Kaspar kept it light and casual, though Kingsley registered the panic dancing in his eyes. He'd shown up at their house in Christmas pajamas. Kingsley nodded, crying out when Kaspar ripped open his shirt. "Potter?" 

"Sir?" Harry looked white as the sheet he'd draped over the couch.

"I need you to get Mrs. Shacklebolt some tea, or some hot cocoa, or something. Sit her down in that armchair." 

"Food." Kingsley hissed through the pain. 

"Yeah, that too. You cook, Potter?" Kaspar nodded when Harry said yes. "Hop it it."

Harry walked Patti into the kitchen and locked the door. When they'd gone, Kaspar explained that Kingsley had been shot, point blank, with a crossbow. Wands would be easily traced, especially with Spell Detection. Of course, the attacker tossed in a bit of magic for fun, but he'd wanted to play with Kingsley. Kingsley nodded, taking all this in, struggling to stay awake. Patti had removed the device. 

"The head's embedded in there. Deep breath. I'm gonna turn you over." Kaspar turned Kingsley over, making him stare at the couch cushions. Patti was still screaming, demanding to be by Kingsley's side. "Potter!" 

Harry Apparated by his side, not wanting to unlock the door. 

"She ... she needs to calm down. Calm. Calm." Kingsley felt himself slipping away. Kaspar lifted the curses from his body by muttering a few counter curses. 

Kaspar reached into his robes and handed over two vials. "Calming Draught. Knock her out with an overdose, if you have to, but you're charge is Patti." 

"What about the attacker?" asked Harry. 

"I'm giving you the most important job here, Potter. If she's not calm, Kingsley's fretting over her. I take out this poisoned arrowhead, and he bleeds out. Why? Because she's freaking out. We don't want her dropping that calf of hers, do we?" Harry shook his head vehemently. Kaspar waited for Harry to conjure a large mug of hot cocoa and pour the potion with a more than generous hand. "Good." 

Harry nodded. He set his face and took a moment to gather himself. He Disapparated. 

"Kaspar," Kingsley sighed, sounding far away. 

"If you give me some shit about heading towards the light, Kingsley, I swear to God, I will kill you with my bare hands." Kaspar conjured a few other vials and set them on the coffee table. "You are not leaving your wife, a little girl, a newborn baby for me to clean up after. You think I'm picking up those pieces? No, sir. I've got two of mine own, remember, and a vindictive ex-wife. Woman's a thief. Sharp breath in." 

Kaspar pointed his wand at Kingsley's spine. The arrowhead flew across the room. As he worked with quick hands, Kaspar talked a lot about a whole bunch of nothing. Well, it was mostly about his conniving, cheating, no good witch of a wife. He cleaned the wound, cast a nonverbal bandaging spell, went to wash his hands, and returned with a plate of breakfast food. Kingsley sat there with his bandaged chest exposed. 

Patti came out with Harry, complimenting his cooking style as she tucked in. She wore an unnatural serene expression. Kaspar, smiling a little, saying Patti got drunk on his Calming Draught, handed Kingsley a Blood Replenishing Potion and Ambrosial Antibotics. 

"You'll need to go to St. Mungo's to take these for a week, so don't skip a dose. And you're off for week, so enjoy your holiday. Do not lift anything heavy. Including Rachelle." Kaspar got to his feet and gathered Kingsley's bloody jacket and shirt before he placed Kingsley’s wand and Rosary on the coffee table. "I'll station guards outside your door. Who do you want?" 

"Nobody." Kingsley hated the iron aftertaste from the Blood Replenishing Potion. 

"Kingsley." Harry raised his eyebrows. 

"I'm fine," said Kingsley weakly. 

"Look, you stubborn git." Kaspar sat on the coffee table after it cleaned itself. When Kingsley muttered that he was Kaspar's superior, Kaspar actually laughed as if Kingsley a punchline to a joke. He pointed at Patti, who nodded off in the armchair whilst Harry cast a welcoming fire. Harry covered Patti with a light blanket. "She's due soon, yeah? When Death Eaters walk in here and attack, or God forbid, kidnap your nine months pregnant wife and your daughter, what're they going to do with you? They're going to walk all over your dead body. So, I'm asking again, Kingsley. Nicely. Who do you want?" 

Kingsley wanted to sleep. "Gawain Robards and Neville Longbottom." 

"Good. Thanks for playing along." When Kingsley said Rachelle was in the bedroom with the house-elf, Kaspar went to fetch them. Saying he had the week with the kids, he waved goodbye and left. 

Kingsley turned towards Harry. "Thank you." 

"For what?" asked Harry, helping him into a sitting position and handing him his breakfast. "Who gets shot by an arrow laced with poison and curses without shouting? You're brave as hell." 

"For letting Kaspar yank you away for anything and everything." Kingsley watched Rachelle open Christmas gifts. "It can't be easy. I mean, you rushed here from the Burrow." 

"Andromeda's place," Harry corrected him, shrugging, "but Teddy's a baby. He won't remember."

"I missed Rachelle's first two Christmases and her birthdays because I told myself that. Let’s not make it harder than it has to be, Harry.” Kingsley warned him, eating slowly. Teddy might not remember, and he might not even care later on, but Harry would. He pointed at the stack, a small pyramid of three gifts in the back of the tree. He lifted his wand, they zoomed over, out of Rachelle's reach. Harry caught them. "The first is for you. The others are for Teddy." 

Harry grinned at him, saying he didn't need anything. Kingsley hated whenever people told him this because he searched really hard for gifts, especially those within his inner circle. Harry wasn’t quite there yet, but Kingsley cared for the young man. As he had gotten this through International Owl Order, though, he hoped to at least get a nod. 

Harry asked if this gift was not for Rachelle when he opened it, confused for a moment, until he accidentally dropped it. It clattered to the floor, scattering into individual pieces, rolling around like toddler alphabet blocks. The five blocks stationed themselves in different areas in the room. They were not there. Rachelle, curious, done with her destruction, went searching. 

Harry grinned at her. 

Kingsley cleared his throat, hoping he sounded strong enough for this. “ _Pallium_. They are voice activated, so you’ll have to train them with your pitch and inflection.” 

His last sentence sounded throughout the sitting room and played back from all corners. “They are voice activated, so you’ll have to train them with your pitch and inflection.” It woke Patti, but she turned her head. When the owl had arrived with his order, he’d demonstrated it for her. Since she’d made the suggestion, Patti didn’t react to the technology as Kingsley had hoped. Rachelle looked pretty confused and started searching on all fours. 

Kingsley deactivated it with a simple command. _Finite_.” 

The blocks zoomed into the middle of the room as if drawn by a magnetic force. 

“That is the coolest thing!” Harry jumped to his feet and beamed at Kingsley. “Where did you get that?” 

“In the States. It’s called a Cloak and Dagger. The technique.” Patti opened her eyes and drummed her fingers on the armchair. With the dosage of the Calming Draught, Kingsley imagined she would be nodding in and out throughout the day. She had trouble sleeping towards the end of the pregnancy, anyway. “I ordered it last month because I figured you’d find it useful. The blocks are cloaked by a Dillusionment Charm. It is a Traveling Cloak.” 

“Thank you, ma’am.” Harry picked up the blocks and put them back in their box. 

“It’s not ‘ma’am’, Mr Potter, it’s Patti.” Patti rolled her eyes when he answered, “Yes, ma’am,” and nodded off to sleep before she could string together a decent argument. Whilst they were forty, or Patti neared forty, they were not yet old. Harry was half their age. As she’d left the Aurors as a Capitan, she had outranked him. 

“You don’t call me ‘sir’, Harry,” said Kingsley. 

“Yeah, well, I knew you before, didn’t I? It’s complicated.” Harry stopped when Kingsley gave him a knowing smile. Kingsley had been with the Aurors since leaving Hogwarts, and he still considered this one of the best decisions he’d ever made. “It’s weird, though, the chain of command. We work for Kaspar Williamson, and by the Diggory Doctrine, he serves you. You’re my boss.” 

“:I’m your boss’s boss.” Kingsley finished his breakfast, and Posey fetched the dishes. She thanked Kingsley for the butterscotch and peppermint sweets. He nodded. Kingsley looked at Harry’s confused expression and tried to break the chain of command in the simplest way possible. “It’s like this …” 

“Oh, no, it’s just weird you’re a health nut, and yet you gift sweets. You’re the healthiest health nut I’ve met. You eat cardboard for breakfast. Not today, because I’ve cooked for you.” Harry got to his feet and offered him cardboard cereal. 

“It’s meusli, and no thanks.” Kingsley got up and started walking around. He felt like an old man. Yesterday, he’d run around the block. He used the furniture to get around, a bent and spent beggar. He guessed Penelope, at the very least, had caught wind of the attack by now. The government might sleep on Christmas Day, but the world never stopped revolving. “You should go visit the Weasley family or something. It’s Christmas, and besides, you’re going to be so bored here. Christmas comes here to die.” 

“Funny,” said Harry, sarcastically, giving a dry laugh. 

Kingsley thought so. “Too soon?” 

“Bye, Kingsley. Get some rest. Happy Christmas.” Harry walked over to the fireplace, helped himself to a fistful of Floo Powder, and disappeared into the flames after saying, “The Burrow”. 

Kingsley fell down when he got into the kitchen. He found he couldn’t even crawl because his spine was damaged in the perfect spot. Well, at least he wasn’t paralyzed. He sat in a heap for a good while before he called for his wife. The minute he said her name, it dawned on him this was a bad idea, too. The house-elf, mercifully, rushed to his aid. 

“What is Master Kingsley needing?” asked Posey. She didn't act strange about this at all as she helped him to the bathroom and then deposited him onto the couch. “You is needing rest.” 

“I was trying to get a coffee.” It was a simple task he’d done earlier that morning. 

What Kingsley needed was to find whoever shot him in the back and pay them back in kind. As Mr. Nott was the one who had supposedly kidnapped his daughter over the summer, he was at the top of the list. Reporters and photographers, a handful of them, but still, enough to make a difference, had witnessed the whole thing. He stayed on the couch until they sat down to dinner around seven.     
His strength came back with the New Year, although his pride was definitely injured. He’d handled the paperwork from his bedside, and Penelope, ever the faithful press secretary, filled him in on anything and everything. She’d released a statement on the assassination attempt, although she hated calling it that. The papers, all of them, fell in line, and spit out similar stories. 

His second daughter, Amarie, arrived on January fourteenth, and Kingsley, for one, welcomed the distraction for the press because it took the heat off Christmas Day. He wondered if there was any hopes on whether or not the Caretaker minister would be remembered as that Auror who got shot in the back on Christmas Day. Caretaker Minister, indeed. 

A fortnight later, they played host to the _Daily Prophet_ , for they had promised Barnabas Cuffe an interview. Kingsley had never opened his home to the public, for he was a private man, so this wasn't the easiest thing for him to do. Patti picked up on his a little late. It wasn’t until one of the photographers handed her the wrapped bundle that she realized why he’d been so protective. 

Rachelle wore a yellow dress to match her little sister’s blankets. 

_Too late_ , thought Kingsley, placing Rachelle on his knee. As the cameras flashed, Rachelle got distracted and tried to talk to the photographers. She messed up all the shots, which Kingsley found he liked. Barnabas Cuffe, sitting in the armchair, completely in his element, sucked a Quick Quotes Quill, and it balanced itself in the air. 

“So, a new year comes with a new baby,” said Barnabas. 

Unlike Rita, who made most people feel uncomfortable, Barnabas’s voice sounded natural and controlled. He wore midnight blue robes for the occasion. This wasn't like sitting down to tea with an old friend, at least not for Kingsley. He understood now why Patti had insisted that they do this on their own terms. Patti felt comfortable. She looked like a new mother. Posey had helped her with hair and makeup, and the simple dress looked lovely. On the whole, given the state of things, Patti couldn’t care less. 

“I remember when I first met you, Patti,” said Barnabas, bringing his hands together. There was a twinkle behind his eyes Kingsley didn’t catch before at the office. “I offered you a job as a writer, and you said what? Refresh my memory.”

“No,” said Patti, resting her chin on her hand. “And the answer remains the same, Barnabas, I’m sorry.” 

“She’s a hell of a spinner, this one, a fine catch.” Barnabas laughed genially as he sipped his fizzy drink. 

“I know.” Kingsley took her hand. 

“Ah, well, if your husband wasn't Minister for Magic, I’d imagine you’d still it right from under him, Patti.” Barnabas helped himself to the snacks. “What’s it like, Minister, running the country with a newborn in the house?” 

“Well, it doesn't help you sleep,” said Kingsley, giving the honest answer. He said the first thing that popped into his head. Patti chuckled appreciatively, patting his shaking knee. She kept her eyes on the baby. “But it’s nice. Patti says I’m definitely outnumbered.” 

“Three girls and one man?” Barnabas winked at him. “Yeah. I’d say so.” 

The Quick Quotes Quill skated across the parchment, something Kingsley noticed the editor did not check at the start of the hour before giving the interview, and it distracted him. What exactly passed as personal but didn’t cross the line? What was Barnabas turning their names into? Rita, Kingsley knew, would've said that the Minister of Magic’s lack of sleep led to poor decisions with regards with goblin trade agreements or foreign policy. She’d would’ve weaved a web of lies out of nothing.

“Minister?” Barnabas paused. Rachelle helped out when she pointed at the editor. Kingsley caught the next part. “Well, I guess that’s the sleep deprivation at work. Maybe your house-elf has a stash of QuickQuest to get you through the afternoon? Careful, though, that stuff is addicting.” 

Kingsley smiled, telling himself to shed the disguise and just be himself. Really, at the end of the day the end of the hour honestly, this would be over. “What?” 

Patti and Barnabas shared a smile. Patti, his safety net, caught him, and put him back on course. “Barnabas wants to know what you think of the appeals for the Death Eater trials, darling.” 

Kingsley had no idea how this had gotten out to the press, and he didn’t want to know. “Every citizen has a right to an appeal as long as there is a reason behind the appeal. I have to tell you, Barnabas, as a father, you don't want some of these people out. Does the Ministry make mistakes? Yes. There are things you don't want to know.” 

A spasm crossed Patti’s face, though Kingsley was willing to bet he was the only one to catch it. As Minister for Magic and the highest ranked officer in the Auror Office, though he just held the latter in title because Kaspar was department head, Kingsley held an interesting position. He shifted Rachelle on his knee. 

“Like what?” prompted Barnabas, leaning in. 

“As the Death Eater trials are still ongoing,” said Kingsley, phrasing this carefully, “and there is still work to be done, perhaps the appeals should wait. A lot can change with the passage of time. You don't wait to jump the wand here. There are things, perhaps, that may help or hinder these cases. I ask them to wait.” 

“So you’re on the side of the Death Eaters’ side?” Barnabas wasn’t doing this for the shock and awe factor, and Kingsley considered this a legitimate question. Kingsley sat in his sitting room digging his own grave. 

“No.” That’s not what Kingsley meant. 

Kingsley held up a hand, putting things on pause. This gesture worked between him and his wife behind closed doors. Why not here? He backtracked, letting Sirius Black swim into his head. As Bartemius Crouch was not a former Minister for Magic, Kingsley didn't feel too awful about throwing him under the Knight Bus. Crouch forgot humanity. He, Kingsley, prayed he would not. 

“I’m saying we’ve made mistakes trying to clean this up in a hurry last time in the First Wizarding War. People lost their lives. Whilst chances are we shall repeat history, let’s try to be vigilant and fight against taking the easy way out.” Kingsley took a sip of water and offered the glass to his daughter. “Time is on our side, and we have a chance to make things better. Let's do that. Innocent until proven guilty, Barnabas. A man’s life is worth taking a second look.” 

Barnabas Cuffe held his tongue for a few minutes, so the only sound in the background was the Quill getting up to speed. 

Barnabas signaled to his photography crew, asking them to step out for a minute with a simple hand gesture. Leaving their equipment in place, they traipsed off into the corridor. He leaned over Patti and shook Kingsley’s hand with both of his. “That’s fucking brilliant.” 

Patti passed her hand over her face. “Barnabas.” 

The Quill kept recording their words. 

“What? It’s a compliment, Patricia.” Barnabas shifted back into position and caught his trusty writing tool out of the corner of his eye. “Oh! Scratch that last.” 

The Quill crossed out the last part of their conversation. 

“You may come back, fellas!” Barnabas picked up on where they’d left off as the photographers took their positions again. He went back to the baby when she woke up and started cooing. His fat face lit up. “Isn’t she lovely?” 

Kingsley whispered in Patti’s ear, pointing out this totally depended on the hour. He switched to Barnabas, giving his prepared line. “It’s a journey.” 

“What do you think of your sister, Miss Rachelle?” Barnabas beamed at Rachelle. 

Rachelle, shy, gave her thoughts in French. 

Patti stepped in here. “ _En anglais, Rachelle_.” 

“She cries a lot and she’s boring," said Rachelle again. 

“She’s a baby, darling,” said Kingsley.

“Oh, Rachelle, the horror stories I’m going to share with you in future. Wait.” Patti shook her head, a smile plastered in her face. “I tell you what.” 

Kingsley winced because he felt guilty every time she brought this up. The editor caught this, though he said nothing. Outside of money he sent her, Patti had essentially been a single mother for a couple years. On second thought, sensing the hesitation a little too long, Barnabas took his free pass back. 

“You were stationed in the United States when Rachelle was born?” Barnabas knew this; he asked for his readers. 

“Yes,” said Kingsley, taking this one. “That was difficult.” 

Patti offered the baby to Barnabas, who took the wrapped bundle enthusiastically. Kingsley patted Rachelle’s thick hair, pleased was distracted or lost in her own world. The night Rachelle was born, he’d been stuck in an Order meeting. That night, he’d lost his cool with Sirius and tore into him, reducing Sirius to nothing, though he couldn’t tell him why. He’d never shared his family with the Order, though Nymphadora Tonks and Remus Lupin had figured out his secret. 

“But we’re together now,” said Patti, taking her husband’s hand reassuringly. 

“Assignments sometimes cross paths,” said Kingsley, not offering more. He waved his hand at the baby, smiling again. “When’s the last time you held one of those, Mr. Cuffe?” 

“Oh, it’s a while. My wife’s going to love this. Yes. I’m stealing her. ” Barnabas held the baby close. “What’s she called?” 

“Amarie Elisabeth,” supplied Kingsley, “and you can’t. Sorry. She’s mine.” 

“Amarie,” said Barnabas. 

Barnabas touched a finger to the baby’s nose and handed her back to her mother. Congratulating them again, giving handshakes all around, he packed up his things. The photographers took a few shots. Barnabas asked for shots with and without Rachelle, and this hardly seemed to bother her because one of photographers kept joking around with her. With one final shot, Kingsley rested his hand on Patti’s shoulder, both of them focused on the baby when she started to get fussy. 

“I think that’s a wrap,” said Barnabas, calling after Patti as she rushed off to feed Amarie. “You’re a lifesaver!” 

Patti wasn’t really listening anymore. Kingsley saw the crew to the door and genuinely apologized for missing Barnabas Cuffe’s Christmas party. Although he assumed that all the reporters at the _Daily Prophet_ were like Rita Skeeter, he really liked this man. Of course, this all depended on what came out in the wash in the paper, but Kingsley felt pleasantly optimistic. Kingsley gave Rachelle a piggy back ride, recovered from his attack during the holidays. They went into the master bedroom, and he knocked on the bathroom door. 

“In a moment,” Patti called. It took considerably longer than a moment. She sounded like she leaned against the bathroom door. “What is it, Kingsley?” 

“I like him.” Kingsley let Rachelle down and sat on the other aide of the door. He knew this sounded awful, but he had trust issues. “Should we like him? Did we do a bad thing, here, Patti? Did we open Pandora’s box?”    
“Barnabas has his moods, and he lives for the _Prophet_. I want to say no? No. We’ll be fine.” Kingsley backed away from the door and checked the wardrobe. “Kingsley?” 

“Yeah?” he called. 

“Thank you. I know you were against the interview because of me and the girls. But you don’t need to protect me.” 

“Nobody needs to protect Patricia Shacklebolt.” 

“Damn straight.” 

Kingsley laughed softly. “You’re a mess.” 

“And you love it. No, seriously, you said no at first. You were fantastic. That line about innocent until proven guilty? Where’d that come from?”

“Sirius Black.” 

 

Kingsley supposed he was a man who gave penitence. He was one of those Catholic Catholics; he married himself to his faith. When he arrived at work on Thursday morning, Harry took the beeline towards him. They stepped onto the lift together, and Kingsley frowned when Harry fumbled around for the emergency latch and pulled it, stalling the lift as the grates clanged shut. 

“Right.” Harry seemed to be arguing with himself. Kingsley, who had been there himself more than he liked to admit, gave him a moment. 

Harry cleared his throat and stood at the opposite side of the confined space. Without warning, he closed the distance between them and locked Kingsley in a tight embrace. Next to Harry’s briefcase, the day’s newspaper fell to the floor, open to Barnabas’s article. Kingsley caught a shot of himself, Patti, and a sleeping Amarie in the centerfold. When Harry started crying, Kingsley, patted him on the back. He didn't know how long they stood in the lift like this. Harry stepped back after a while, wiped his eyes, gathered his things, and cracked his neck. 

Kingsley reached over, found the emergency latch, and released it. The lift started moving again. When they reached the second floor, Kingsley sidestepped a couple witches and gave Harry an imperceptible nod. Harry stepped off the lift. They parted ways.


	5. Just A Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kingsley makes a mistake.

Kingsley put a lot in faith. Pretty much everything. Whilst most people questioned their faith or their religion one point or another, he kept his as his one constant. Faith and religion, in his eyes, were not the same thing, although it was perfectly fine if other people placed them in the same category. His father did. Ezra was a scientist, a faithful man because it served him in his laboratory experiments. Kingsley might have started out this way, although he went through confirmation and the other stuff, but his Rosary gave him comfort. 

Barnabas Cuffe might have saved them with that article. He made them human in print, even though Kingsley argued he was already one of the people. On a Sunday night, he actually had finished his work early, but he wan’t mentally ready to head home. After finding the decanter in its spot, he poured himself a shot. The editor hadn’t asked them about the attack, though he'd leaked it subtly through the words of his article. Not a word had been said about this in the interview. Kingsley, like he imagined the rest of the people, read between the lines; people followed whatever they read blindly, especially from a trusted familiar source. 

And an article actually written by the editor of the paper that filled people’s homes? That was gold, pure gold, and Kingsley had missed the master stroke. This had been orchestrated by Patricia and the editor. Kingsley followed this drink with another and another as he played Christmas morning through his mind. It came back in flashes: the pain, the shock, the blood, the fear. The portrait on the wall held no occupant. Ulick Gamp was off somewhere doing something. 

There had been an article in the paper that suggested these attacks won the Minister for Magic sympathy points. First, when he lost his daughter at the place where parents sent their children off to school every September first, his carelessness cost him his dchild. If Kingsley Shacklebolt couldn’t be trusted to keep an eye on his own daughter, why should they trust him to run the country? What if a dragon got loose in Wales? The second straw was when the Minister for Magic covered up the assassination attempt. But the nail in the coffin? This was when he openly decided to help Stan Shunpike to get his job back as conductor of the Knight Bus. 

There was a knock on his office door. Kingsley debated ignoring it, but he couldn’t. There were a handful of people who stayed behind because he pulled long nights at the office. Refilling his glass, he called, “Come in, Penelope.” 

He hadn’t really known it was her. He’d thrown out a good guess because she was a wonderful press secretary. When the young woman actually stepped into the office, he thought he had good odds. Her curly hair was pulled back, and she wore plain dress robes. 

“Have you heard?” Kingsley tossed the paper on the desk as Penelope approached. No matter how well-written Barnabas’s article had been, the article had been written a year and a half ago, and he couldn’t use that save forever. “I’m a man who puts children in harm’s way. That makes me feel like a proud father.” 

“Kingsley, you know better than to read the papers,” said Penelope. She sat in the chair opposite his desk and placed one foot behind the other. 

“Oh, no, it gets better,” he said, drumming his fingers on the desk. He asked her if she wanted a drink. She said no. “It’s a good story. It’s stupid.” 

“Kingsley, whatever it is, it’s not true.” Penelope opened the folder and prepared to go through the week’s agenda. She couldn't control the press or keep Kingsley’s hands out of the fire, but she warned him whenever she could, and she spun good stories. He appreciated this. “We’re all behind you, sir, and you’re doing the best you can.” 

“Am I? No, listen.” Kingsley picked up another paper, decided it was indeed very stupid. not to mention insulting, to read to his press secretary, and set this aside, too. “Rita Skeeter says I had a baby for political capital. Amarie’s a distraction to the public, apparently, and I pulled that off! Me.” 

“Kingsley, they said Rachelle was a distraction, remember?” Penelope set her work aside. “If anything, they’d say Patti, the political strategist, pulled that off, which obviously isn’t true. They’re only words.” 

“Patti isn’t here to clean up this mess.” His wife was off running a senator's campaign in the United States. It wasn't his wife’s job to clean up after him, and Kingsley knew that, but she’d gone back to work shortly after the baby. He’d told her to go. She was the Minister’s wife, yes, but this bored her, and she seriously excelled in the political arena. “I haven't slept in my own bed for a week.” 

The house-elf and the nanny were at home with the children. Whenever he did make it home, Kingsley slept on the couch or in his home office. He’d been having one hell of a week. 

“You’re off today.” Penelope reminded him that he never worked on Sundays. 

“I’m catching up on paperwork,” he said. 

“Kingsley, you have a toddler and a five-year-old who probably haven’t seen their father in ages. Go home.” Penelope got to her feet. She waved her wand and her own work disappeared. “Posey made your favorite.” 

“Anyone can make a salad,” he said. How did she know about how his house-elf ran his household? Penelope came for dinner once in a while. It surprised Kingsley she’d bothered to remember the house-elf’s name. 

“No, macaroni cheese, and baked chicken, and broccoli. The salad’s a given, you know, because you’re you.” Penelope giggled when Kingsley glanced at the clock, a content expression on his face. “Uh huh. You wanna go eat now.” 

Kingsley, nodded, getting to his feet. He left his briefcase locked in the drawer. Whatever his mother used to say about Posey or her mother, Hokey, the house-elf, they knew how to get him home. Ever since he was a small child, Kingsley went for the simple stuff. He was a health nut, yes, but he believed there was power in a home cooked meal. Macaroni cheese, the real stuff, always stood out as a mystery to him. 

When he got to the door, Penelope said, “Happy birthday, sir.” 

Kingsley spun around on the spot. How could he have forgotten his own birthday? He was forty-two. He stopped, smiling, and reached up to tuck a loose strand behind her ear. She smelled faintly of lavender. He went to peck her on the cheek, a simple thank you, even though he knew crossed the line. She kissed him!

He liked it. Kingsley told himself to pull away, walk away like this never happened, yet she drew him in. He hadn't had sex since before the birth of his second daughter, and he couldn’t remember the last time Patti had kissed him like this. Really kissed him. They kissed each other good morning and good night; it was a ritual. When they broke apart, Kingsley pressed Penelope up against the wall. 

“Minister,” said Penelope. 

“We shouldn’t do this.” She kissed him again. Or maybe he kissed her? But on the third time, Kingsley backed away. This didn't make any sense. He had a wife, a wife who could reduce him to nothing on the political stage without ever raising a wand or muttering a simple spell. “I have a wife, and we have children. Small children. I’m Catholic.” 

“You’re a power couple,” said Penelope. When she read the pained expression on his face, Penelope straightened her robes. He’d kissed her on the cheek before at a Christmas party, nothing more than a simple thank you. She flushed with color when Kingsley fingered the Rosary in his pocket. “I thought you were kissing me.” 

“Yes and no.” 

Kingsley wouldn't make that mistake twice. She was a young woman in her mid-twenties, and although she was very talented, she got lost in her work. Kingsley cleared his throat, taking control of the situation. Before he knew what he was saying, he admitted he hadn’t had sex in a very long time. He and his wife went through these, these dry spells, and he felt lonely. Playing his words back in his mind, shocked he’d said them, he tossed Floo Powder into the fireplace and wished her a good evening before he disappeared. 

 

Kingsley was a good, faithful Catholic man. As he sat down to dinner with his family, he told himself this over and over. The food tasted strange, especially the macaroni cheese, yet this had nothing to do with Posey's excellent cooking; she'd learned from her mother, and Kingsley felt like a child again. Patti showed up in the middle of the meal. 

Posey, who had a permanent seat at their table, got up to put away her mistress's things. Afterwards, they had a chocolate cake. Kingsley barely touched his slice, though he smiled for the girls. When he opened a first-edition of some book collection he didn't have time to read, he pecked his wife on the cheek, thanking her. 

And he thought of Penelope. 

"Are you all right?" Patti patted him on his hand. He said yes. They put the girls to bed, and she guided him into the bedroom. They made love in the shower. Minutes later, when she laid down with him and set her paperback novel on the bedside table, she started again. Kingsley sighed, enjoying it. As he looked at her, Patti's face shifted into Penelope's fair, round one, and he imagined the press secretary. "That's it. Harder." 

Kingsley groaned. When they cried out together in ecstasy, Kingsley stared at her until he looked back into Patti's eyes. Exhausted, he rolled onto his side. 

Patti said nothing for a while. "That was amazing." 

Kingsley stared at the opposite wall, silent. When she had returned from the United States the last time, it had been like this, a weekend of uninterrupted this, and he'd loved wearing her out. They'd been been together, always together, and this usually reforged the bond. Last time, this had held to Amarie. Their honesty was their saving grace. No matter what happened to them, good or bad, they remained true to each other. No secrets. 

"Patricia." 

"Don't ruin the moment, Kingsley." She leaned over and gave him a passionate good night kiss and snuggled next to him. "Whenever you say my name like that, whatever comes next isn't good news, or we end up debating political strategy. And I'm tired. Senator Barnes drained my brain for days. Let's talk tomorrow. Good meeting." 

Kingsley couldn't help himself; having his own overused line thrown back into his face strangely gave him the courage to say it. "I kissed Penelope before I left the office. Or she kissed me, and I kissed her back. I ...I don't know." 

He watched his wife's face go from peaceful content to sheet disappointment in no time flat. This frightened him. Patti, resting her hand on his chest, put her game face on and hid all trace of emotion behind it. When she spoke again, the professional political strategist lay beside him. "You what?" 

"We kissed. It was just a kiss." The blade of the knife twisted deeper into his chest.

"And you decided to tell me this after we made love?" Patti got out of bed and pulled on her nightgown. She paced the bedroom, and her harsh laughter stung him. "I should deny this. It can't be Kingsley Shacklebolt because he would _never_ ... he's a good man. But it's so pedestrian." 

"Patti." His voice cracked. 

"Your secretary, Kingsley? The press secretary I handpicked for you? I made that girl. She's mine!" Patti raised her voice, losing it as she unravelled in front of him. "I clean up these messes, these scandals, for a living. You know that. I gave you ... I gave you children ... and I have never once left your side. I have been through your nonsense. When you first told me about Sirius?" 

"Patti. Patricia." 

"No, no! You don't get to 'Patricia' me. You left me alone with your daughter in New York, and I understood because you're you." Patti made these problems insignificant. When Kingsley tried to speak again, she turned on her heel and went back the other way. Kingsley wanted to point out their children slept down the corridor. Before he could craft a defense, albeit a weak one, she opened her legs as she climbed on top of him. "Is that who I am to you? Am I your faithful cheerleader because I make you feel good? Is that it, Minister?" 

"No." Kingsley found it difficult to concentrate. 

"You stay above the fray, Kingsley because I made you from scratch. You... you're you. You're better, you're stronger. You're ..." Patti screamed as they finished. Kingsley laid back, spent, catching his breath, as she collapsed on top of him. "It was just a kiss?" 

He nodded. "It happened three times One right after the other, Patti, it meant nothing." 

"They always say that, you fool." 

Patti fixed her nightgown and got back in bed as Kingsley laid down. He'd meant it. He couldn't phrase it differently, and he didn't know if she believed it, but Kingsley chose his clichéd line carefully. Should he fire Penelope Clearwater or shuffle her off to another department? He wasn't going to ask his wife, the woman who stood in his corner, to bury this and make it go away, for he didn't deserve a save here. He'd never go to the Ministry of Magic on a Sunday ever again. That was for sure. Patti fell asleep beside him, but Kingsley, wide awake, mentally prepared himself for another long week. 

 

Penelope avoided him for weeks whilst she did her job. She told him whatever he needed to know before she got out of dodge. Kingsley liked that she got the message. He left the office by six o'clock every evening. He didn't take his work home, nor did he act like he was on a leash, but he did need to find a release. When Kaspar suggested they work out at a boxing centre, Kingsley penciled these into his schedule and blocked off that time on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Whenever they felt like training the boys, they invited Harry, Ron, and Neville along. The Muggle who owned the place thought they were police officers. 

Kingsley never bothered correcting him. The man was a nice fellow, but he didn't need to know. On these nights, Kingsley grabbed the rucksack that Posey packed for him. Whether or not the boys were there, Kaspar jumped into the ring promptly at six-thirty. They went running sometimes, too, but Kingsley preferred this. Even though he was Minister for Magic, he was still an officer in the Auror Department as long as Kaspar needed him to eradicate the Death Eaters and other potential threats. He stayed on as an advisor, and this didn't excuse him from annual physicals. 

Kaspar talked a lot as he danced around the ring. When Kingsley guarded his face and blocked a jab, he held back. Like always, they talked about Kaspar and his women, although the ex-wife stayed out of the picture more often than not these days. He was a free man on the market. 

"She didn't like to read. Yeah, she said, and I quote, 'I don't read.'" Kaspar got in a few jabs and coughed when Kingsley caught him in the jaw. It wasn't a lucky shot. He scoffed. "Like that's an all right thing to say to a man. What the hell?"' 

"That's not okay." Kingsley hadn't dated in a while, but this would've turned him off, too. 

"Not okay. So, that ended. And then there was that woman who hated children. I took Delores Umbridge out for dinner five years ago, too, and I don't think I mentioned her. Same thing. Hated children, and she left that out. Like that's all right. Women." Kaspar stepped out of the thing for a moment and came back with two bottles of water. Kingsley caught his. Kaspar's children attended Hogwarts now. They came first. He drank half his water. 

"You went out with Delores?" Kingsley leaned against ropes and jerked his head towards Neville and Harry. Harry, Kingsley could tell by his expression, had caught at least part of this conversation. 

"Potter," said Kaspar. 

"Yeah, I've lost so much respect for you, sir," said Harry. 

Kingsley noticed that he hadn't lost so much respect that he'd dropped the "sir" from his vocabulary. Harry climbed into the ring without an invitation. Since their training had started, both of the boys had gained muscle and stronger builds. Harry, like Neville, gained confidence. He actually knew what he was doing now. He'd dropped the cocky, half-assed talk a couple weeks ago after getting married. 

Kaspar shrugged. Shortly after his appointment as department head of the Auror Office, Kaspar Williamson had attended Delores Umbridge's trial, and he'd actually provided testimony against her because he'd been hauled in by the Muggle-born Registration Committee. He'd called her, and Kingsley later read the court transcript back to him verbatim, so he knew this for a fact, a bitch with a death wish. Kingsley had sat in on that trial, too, yet he liked driving the point home.

No matter what happened from this point onwards, Kingsley labelled that woman with that testimony. 

"Bitch with a death wish, he said," said Kingsley, rubbing salt in a nonexistent wound. He filled Harry and Neville in as Kaspar sparred with them. Kingsley drank his water on the sidelines and tossed the empty bottle into the wastebasket. 

Harry clenched his fist, and Kaspar thought he readied himself for a punch, but Kingsley knew what he was showing Kaspar. There was a lines forever etched in Harry's hand: _I must not tell lies_. Delores Umbridge, during her time at Hogwarts, had made Harry carve these words into his own skin. Kingsley hadn't known this at the time, of course, but Harry had shared the story with him when Kingsley immediately inducted him into the Auror Department. 

"She did this?" Kaspar took Harry's hand gingerly and held it to the light after calling for a time out. Delores wasn't serving a life sentence. "Kingsley we can't let her back into the Ministry." 

"She won't be welcomed back," said Kingsley.

It wasn't exactly easy to get back into the government after pulling stunts like hers. Kingsley didn't know how long he'd hold this office, but he wasn't going to let scum seep through the cracks. He got back in the ring with Neville. As they went a few rounds, Kingsley cleared his head. Kingsley only had to answer to Kaspar, so he’d completed his annual physical requirement solely in his presence. Even though it was mainly for show, Kingsley had cut no corners. 

He’d seen Neville slipping a little. Although he had no hand in the Auror Department, he kept an eye on the original three recruits. Kingsley didn't have to do this. Kaspar, acting like a caring father, though he played the part of the hardcore, relentless officer, kept Kingsley in the loop. Kingsley simply didn't have the time to be there for them. Technically, back in the old days, they would still be in the recruitment stage. Kingsley had thrown them into the fire. Kaspar had no hand in that decision. 

“Concealment and Disguise is probably the hardest test,” he said, merely boxing with Neville to have something to do. 

Neville wasn't going to bring it up and Kingsley didn't have time to beat around the bush. Ronald Weasley had already handed Kaspar his notice. Thinking he was not cut out for the program, for he was no Harry Potter, he’d decided to quit. Kingsley couldn't pretend this wasn't a blow because Ron had gotten better over time. Not everyone was cut out for this career. They were called the elite for a reason. You forgot your family; you forgot your friends; whenever the need arose and a senior officer demanded it, you forgot yourself. 

“Probably?” Neville’s shoulders slumped. He was used to being a failure. Kaspar, a dedicated interviewer, learned everything he could about his recruits. He’d gone as far to question Minerva McGonagall about the three young men. “I’ve never had to disguise myself.”    
“Exactly. It’s new. It’s like Rachelle learning to tie her trainers.” 

Kingsley frowned when Neville mumbled that he wasn't a child. Rachelle was five. He was, he said, getting to the point, a lot older than five. Kingsley backed himself out of a corner. When he explained things to people, sometimes even to members of the Cabinet, he fell back on imagining himself telling this stuff to his kids. It wasn't to patronize anyone, but it made he feel easier. Undoubtedly, it probably made some them feel this way. At nineteen, Neville wasn't the some kid he’d been two years before. He was a young man. 

“Okay, I need adult conversation in my house. I’ve got to get some of that in my life. Fair point.” Kingsley filed this away for later as they laughed at him. “Less pink and dolls, too.” 

“Awww, you’re having Daddy’s little girls problems. Did I not warn you? Pink is like the plague.” Kaspar frowned at him, packing his rucksack and calling it a night. 

Neville said he got the point because he was tired, though they’d inevitably circle back to this conversation later. They went into the changing rooms, their rucksacks over their shoulders, and Kingsley walked home with Kaspar. He grinned when they Apparated onto his street when he remembered last night’s entertainment. 

“Funny story. Last night, Rachelle threw a rock, and we’re talking about something about, say, this big,” he said, picking up a stone as big as his fist and tossing it in the air, “into Amarie’a cot in the nursery. And walked away.” 

“Christ.” Kaspar burst out laughing. “Sharing is caring, I suppose. What’d Patti do?” 

Kingsley raised his hands in a gesture of surrender as he unlocked the door. “If Rachelle got cursed out in French, and I’m guessing here because it went lightning fast, I am not responsible. She got placed in time out and fell asleep in the corner.” 

Patti sat reading over files in the sitting room. Kingsley tossed the rock away and headed straight for the shower. When he came back, Kaspar had gone, and Penelope, who he had not recognized before, sat in the armchair. Of course, he got halfway to the kitchen before his eyes fell on the young woman. Forgetting his warmed plate sealed with a Heating Charm Patti usually kept on the range, he backtracked. 

“Hello.” Kingsley looked from one woman to the other. Now. he’d run some intense interrogations back in his heyday as an Auror. This was just cruel. As it was nearly nine, the girls had been put to bed and offered him no escape route. 

“Kingsley, your dinner’s in the kitchen.” Patti sat on one of her legs. On second thought, she waved her wand casually and the warmed plate appeared on the coffee table next to a glass of water. She didn’t sound angry, or hurt, or disappointed. Penelope, on the other hand, fidgeted liked a caged bird and patted her curled hair. When Kingsley sat down next to his wife, his appetite zapped, she said, “We’re just having a little chat. I invited Miss Clearwater to dinner because I figured she’d appreciate a nice meal.” 

“It’s made by the house-elf,” he said. Penelope knew this already, of course, because she’d ben by their place for dinner. 

“I wanted to smooth this over,” said Patti, completely in her element and removed from the situation. Penelope, a shade of green, sat there, nauseous. Patti, businesslike, pretended as though they were her clients. “This never happened.” 

“Patti,” said Kingsley. He knew he hurt her. 

“If you sack her, Kingsley, if you sack her and dismiss her without cause, there will be an inquiry. And people will ask questions. And Penelope, whatever happened, you like the comfort of your job?” Patti smiled at her and spoke with a forced calm. Penelope nodded. “Great. As he’s my husband, I’ll be taking him back, and you enjoy your evening. This never happened.” 

“Good night, ma’am, Mr. Shacklebolt.” Penelope left without another word.  

Kingsley set down his fork after he finished eating. “Patti.” 

“Yes, dear.” She had never used this pet name for him. Feeling like a stranger in his own home, Kingsley, caught between a rock and a hard place, went to go wash his dishes by hand. Posey asked if he needed help He did not. 

He went back into the sitting room. “You can't sweep this under the rug.” 

“You know what I don’t understand? When I expected you to cheat a couple years ago when you were buried under all the work with Sirius and the Order, you didn’t lift a finger. I thought, maybe, Emmeline Vance.” Patti spoke calmly as if they discussed the news or the weather. Kingsley rested his hands on the back of the armchair. She was throwing out names of people she didn’t even know. As a married man, he’d lived another life without her. “Or maybe I would’ve had an affair because you’d never know.” 

Kingsley pointed out what he thought was obvious. “Between, Sirius, and work, and the Order, when would’ve I have had the time? He wasn’t my only case!”   
Patti studied his face for a while. Apparently, she decided he’d told her the truth because she added, “Or when I was pregnant. People in powerful positions do those things, you know, not that you’re a king or anything. And then you go and kiss that girl? That girl? Were you not satisfied?” 

“That’s not it,” he said. Why were they discussing something she said had never happened? 

“What was it? Because that girl … I’m a catch. I’m successful. My name means something here, in France, in the States, and Spain. Spain loves me! I’m attractive, I am! I’m a fantastic lover, too. I own you in my bed, Kingsley.” 

Kingsley denied none of this. 

“I funded this campaign. We, you and I, built a politician out of nothing. Do you know how _difficult_ that is? The gravity of it?”    
“Yes.” 

“No, you don’t. It’s that I’m controlling you, isn't it?” Patti nodded, not even giving him a chance to answer. “Turns out your mother was right, eh? I’m a wealthy bitch.”   “No!” In the entire time they’d been together, Kingsley had never once lost his temper with her. It was rare that he lost his cool with anyone, yet she’d already made this call without giving him a say. When he jumped to his feet and towered over her, Patti shrank back against the couch. Hesitant, he backed up a few paces and sat on the coffee table, his face in his hands. “I did not do this to hurt you, Patti. I realize I did.” 

Patti demanded an answer. “Why?” 

“You can’t … I’m not some client you can handle. I’m lonely. She was there.” Getting to his feet again, Kingsley spoke to her like he would any other person. It wasn't love. He didn’t even know if he and Penelope were friends because she acted as such a vital member of his staff. She was the face of the Ministry of Magic. “That’s all. She was there.” 

“It’s because I left for Senator Barnes?” Patti sounded confused. 

“You want the truth? You’re acting like my campaign manager when we’ve already won the office.” Kingsley didn't know if she could help it. Could she separate herself and be there for him? He desperately needed a life away from the office. “I serve you, I serve Kaspar, and I serve the people. What does that even mean? The people?” 

Patti started to give an answer. 

“That was rhetorical,” he interjected, stressed, not really wanting to know. She stepped, smiling at him. “I need my wife. Not the Minister’s wife. My wife. Can you find her for me?” 

Patti said she’d been waiting for months for him to find his voice. It hadn't occurred to Kingsley that he’d gotten so lost, and it got so easy, almost too easy, to hide in the demands of the job. He might be Minister for Magic, but it was simply another job. He’d run a team of Aurors, and he’d fooled everyone, absolutely everyone, about Sirius Black on his own. 

He couldn't do this alone. If he forgot himself, and Kingsley knew he was dangerously close to falling off that cliff. he’d forget his girls, his wife, and his parents. He apologized again and again until Patti told him to shut up and forget the kiss ever happened. They weren’t sacking Penelope Clearwater, something they were both adamant about, for Penelope turned into a fighter whenever she got backed into a corner. 

Kingsley knew this kiss, or these kisses, broke the trust between them. His father had warned him about this. Trust was given willingly with love, although it was nearly impossible to get back. He’d have to repair this bridge between them, and she would rightfully question every little thing. They would never be the same. Every night he stayed late in the city, Patti would wonder what he was truly doing at the office. 

“Patti.” 

“We can have political chats on, say, Wednesday evenings.” She drafted a compromise off the top of her head. “And if the Cabinet members are being idiots, I’m here.” 

“Patti.”  

“Just say yes.”   “Yes. Patti.”   Slowly, Patti got up and sat on his lap. It was stupid, but he thought for a moment, just a moment, she’d lost her footing or her balance. Surprised by this move, for he’d expected the cold shoulder before she headed up to bed, Kingsley froze. Slowly, deftly, she took his face in her hands and started kissing him. When their lips parted, Kingsley caught his breath and felt her tongue. Kingsley said he loved her in a way that he hadn't delivered those three simple words in ages. She nodded, and they came together again as their lips touched.


	6. Bentley's Bill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kingsley takes a step in the right direction for lycanthropes and gains a new friend.

Kingsley loved his wife; he lived for his family. Patti never mentioned the kiss with Penelope Clearwater again, although it was there in the back of her mind. She never came right out and said anything, really, and that made this whole ordeal a headache. Well, she held her tongue and threw it out in the middle of nowhere a few years after "the incident" happened. Nothing significant sparked the fire. Amarie, aged four and a half, and Rachelle, aged eight, played in their bedroom with the homemade dollhouse, a Christmas gift from the grandparents. 

After his birthday celebrations, which had been nothing more than the usual dinner and a present or two, Patti fell back on her old standby. They'd fallen into a routine. As they laid there, Kingsley debated whether the office wore him down. Soon, if he wanted it, he'd be running for re-election. It was still down a ways down the road, of course, but now was the time to start planning his strategy. As Minister for Magic, he was required to hold an election every seven years. Kingsley didn't know if he'd last that long. 

Patti, his political mind, had planted the idea in his head. It wasn't a good idea to plan political strategy with sex. He rubbed his fingers against her silk nightgown and pressed his lips to her pale skin. 

"What if I walk away from office?" He kissed her shoulder again. 

"And do what?" Patti sighed, agitated, when Kingsley muttered he didn't know.

A suggestion didn't always come with a game plan armed to the teeth. She bested him in Wizard's chess all the time because she always stayed three or four steps ahead, and she had more than one playing style up her sleeve. They'd done good work the last four years; he'd cleaned up the messes with the Death Eaters. He mentioned this. 

"We did what we set out to do," he said, "and I want the girls to have normal lives outside of the spotlight. They deserve that." 

"Kingsley, you were never normal. You we're Ezra and Rachel's only son, their pampered prince, and you turned out just fine." Patti stroked his face, commenting that he aged well. He rolled his eyes, for the weight of the Ministry of Magic really took its toll on him. He hadn't initially believed Millicent Bagnold when she'd warned him of this because he was a fit man, fit as a fiddle or whatever, but she'd been right. "I like these lines. Your wrinkles." 

Kingsley started making love with her again. "You like this?" 

"Uh huh." Patti concealed her grey locks with a Color Changing Charm, yet she wasn't in shape like he was. Moments like this weren't as exciting as before, but they took whatever they could get. It was ten o’clock and both of them wanted to call it a night. "Kingsley." 

"Hang on," Kingsley groaned and Patti arched her back, saying his name again. She said get out. Kingsley, puzzled, looked at her and then at the door. It slammed shut. He caught a glimpse of curly hair. When he made to get up, Patti locked his face in her hand, making him focus on her. He'd picked up the pace and left her in the bed. "Man of the people, remember?" 

Patti draped the bedcovers over her head and said good night as he pulled on his purple dressing gown. Kingsley knew she hated whenever he threw Patti's tried and true lines back in her face; he used them against her at every opportunity. After taking his earring out and placing it on the bedside table, Kingsley stepped out into the corridor and closed the bedroom door. 

Penelope blushed and was determinedly not looking at him. Kingsley had officially retired from the Auror Department last month. He'd wanted to stay in for twenty-five years because it was a milestone. Life happened. Since they had rounded up the bad guys, and he'd stayed on as merely an advisory capacity, there really had been no point in dragging things out. 

"I know it's late," she said. 

"You know what I've learned as a politician?" Kingsley told her to sit when they got into the sitting room. Posey, who had been working on surgically cleaning the kitchen, stopped and fetched drinks. Kingsley took out his wand and started a fire in the grate with a nonverbal spell. "Time is no longer my own. You want some birthday cake?" 

Penelope told him not to bother. Kingsley, waving her down, went to grab her a slice and followed his house-elf back into the sitting room. Penelope took it. 

"Happy birthday, sir," she said, tasting the icing first. "That's really good." 

"Thank you, miss," said Posey, grinning toothily at her. 

"Tell me what could've possibly happened since I left the office four hours ago." Kingsley sat down. 

"I need to start sending owls," she said. 

"That'd be nice," he said. Kingsley had told Penelope he'd be at her disposal 24/7, and he'd meant it. She, apparently, really meant it, and his open door policy needed some tweaking. She'd arrived via the Floo Network. He set office hours. "These are only for you. You're better than my chief of staff. Bob, by the way, is not privy to these hours." 

She crossed her heart. 

"Eight o'clock. Unless this is Armageddon or we're at war, an actual war not a ..."

"I get it, Kingsley," said Penelope pointedly, polishing off her cake. 

“Okay. And three o'clock on Saturdays, no Sundays," he added, and she nodded, agreeing to these terms. He drove this point home, making her laugh. "If you bother me on a Sunday, Bob Ogden better be dead lying in a ditch in London, and you'd better pray. I don't know if you're a religious person." 

"I'm not." She'd probably told him this before. "But I got taken away from creme brûlée, so this counts as a major problem. The Cabinet along with the Wizengamot are split on whether or not to award the Order of Merlin and pass Bentley's Bill." 

Kingsley cursed and sat up straighter. "Right down the middle?" 

Penelope mimed ripping a piece of paper in half. "Right down the middle. It's a non-starter, sir." 

Kingsley held up a hand and cleared his throat. He went over to the staircase. "Patti? Can you come here, please?" 

Patti joined them in minutes. Despite the hour, she accepted a slice of cake and a cold glass of milk from Posey. The Bentley Montgomery bill, Bentley’s Bill, named after a child who had died from a werewolf bite in the spring of 1997, protected children and their parents from signing the Werewolf Registry. Only a handful of children survived a werewolf bite, and he'd died at St. Mungo's. Patti herself had lobbied for this bill, campaigned for it, and her efforts were wasted. 

"Bentley was five." Patti showed them her open hand. 

Both of them said they knew; she went off on the wrong people. The stigma against werewolves was ingrained in history. Furious, Patti asked if the Cabinet were still in session. Penelope said yes. Taking the hint, Kingsley went to go get dressed and prepare for battle. Patti followed suit. Five minutes later, they travelled to the Ministry of Magic via the Floo Network. Patti, angrier than Kingsley had ever seen her, threw open the doors of the stately conference room.

The gathered members of Cabinet, including a handful of those in the Wizengamot, were huddled in here shouting. When they spotted the Minister and his wife, things died down and reeved back up at a slow pace. 

"SILENCE!" Patti roared over the crowd without casting a Sonorous Charm. Without waiting to be acknowledged or following any other customs, she strode over to the bench. Penelope, her job done, stood against the closed doors and faded into the background. Kingsley stood by his wife. "What the hell is wrong with you people?"

 

Kingsley considered this as a strong opening statement. It was far from appropriate, but who really cared? Patti was a politician, a practiced politician, who lived and breathed for her client. Whether she fought for the Cabinet on home soil, or MACUSA across the pond, or any other foreign state, her endgame remained the same. She stood on the floor and listened to feeble, recycled arguments. 

"As the Minister's wife, ma'am, you hold no power here," wheezed a wizard with a monocle. He sat further back on the bench.

"I am not here to make a decision for you, sir, I am here to get you to make one. Weak and ornamental as a woman as I am," she added as an afterthought, not turning her head when Kingsley chuckled to himself. The fellow raised his eyebrow, and his monocle went deeper into his skin. None of them dared challenge her. 

One of the dissenters of Bentley's Bill acknowledged her. "Very well. The floor recognizes Patricia Shacklebolt." He didn't know what title to give or what association to tie her to. They had said being the Minister's wife did nothing for her. 

"Thank you. Ladies and gentlemen, I ask you to stop wasting our time here and put your party lines aside. It does not matter. What matters is a five-year-old boy who died because he happened to be a target." Undaunted, Patti paced back and forth and listened to someone mention that sliding in a proposal to grant a werewolf an Order of Merlin was ludicrous. Patti stopped. "Did you ever meet that man? Like actually sit down and talk to Remus Lupin?" 

"No, I don't associate with werewolves," said the witch Kingsley recognized as Judith Zabini, "but that's not the point! I...did you ever meet him?" 

"It is the point. If you stepped back and approached this from another angle, you'd see that's exactly the point. And, yes, I met with him a few times. On one of those occasions standing outside the apothecary at Diagon Alley, Remus called me a mastermind and an idiot in the same sentence. And then he invited me to dinner." 

Kingsley scoffed, and when everyone on the bench turned to face him, he shrugged, remembering his friend. "You really had to know him." 

"All right, let me break this down for you, people," said Patti, retracing her steps. "We all have it within ourselves to cross that line, and sometimes we aren't even aware where this boundary exists because its location shifts. Me? I could, theoretically, get people to elect assholes to rule the world, and you wouldn't even see it coming until the world started burning. Voldemort would've found me useful." 

Many in the crowd jumped or made odd noises. 

"Not the point. Who chooses to follow the right path or the wrong one? We do." Patti looked up at the bench and placed her hands behind her back. She let this sink in a moment. "A child, especially a dead child, deserves a voice; it is our duty to use common sense and listen to it. Mr. Lupin got bitten as a child. Does being a werewolf make a wizard or a witch a bad person? What makes them that way? Choices. Bentley deserves a chance, and I beseech you to make the right decision. Common sense." 

Finished with her spiel, which Kingsley knew she crafted off the top of her head after being dragged out of bed, Patti walked out of the conference room. Penelope, speechless, and Kingsley, knackered, followed in her wake. They stood outside because Patti refused to go home. Fifteen minutes later, the scribe opened the doors to relay the decision. 

Bentley's Bill got passed into law. Three days later, on a Thursday morning, Kingsley handed a token, an Order of Merlin, First Class, to both Harry Potter, who held Teddy Lupin's hand, and a quiet man, Remus's father, Lyall. Taking Kingsley completely by surprise, Lyall hugged him tightly and sobbed onto his shoulder. 

 

He desperately needed structure in his life, although what Kingsley really sought at the end of the day with a sense of purpose. Was he doing anything? Was he doing the right thing? What was the point? Where was the finish line? Life was always a race, a competition, and these days, Kingsley, the one who usually felt in control and made the most of this twenty-four hours in a day nonsense, really felt like he was getting a wakeup call. 

He split his life among four women, and although she probably thought she ought to hold a place of honor, his mother didn't make the list: Patricia, Rachelle, Amarie, and Penelope. Two of these were his girls, yet Kingsley got the message loud and clear. If he really, really wanted to, would Patti simply let him drop everything and return back into the fold? Things changed in the Auror Department without Kingsley noticing because there was just too much on his plate. Whilst he had taken a stronger, active role in the beginning, there simply wasn't enough time. 

After the Order of Merlin ceremony, Kingsley cleared his calendar for the rest of the day. When he saw Lyall, it was nearly impossible not to draw parallels with regards to his own father. And Kingsley loved his father, Ezra, to death. An eccentric man, Ezra usually kept to himself, but he'd been an exceptional father. Kingsley had this feeling in his bones, and he couldn't describe it, yet he felt something in his bones telling him Lyall Lupin needed someone. Come hell or high water, Kingsley took this responsibility upon himself. 

“You’re following me,” said Lyall, getting straight to the point. “Why?” 

Kingsley briefly considered telling this old man they merely happened to be going the same way. On second thought, picturing an inquisitive Remus in his head, Kingsley highly doubted he would swallow that pill. 

“Yes, I’m following you, sir. Believe you me, given who I am, this is crossing the line … there is no line.” Kingsley followed him onto a lift, and neither of them said anything until they reached the Atrium. 

“Are you taking away my son’s reward? You can do that, sir. You may do this and I won't think any the worse of you, though I want you to know you're disrespecting the dead. Honestly, I’d hate you and we’d never speak again, you and me.” Lyall presented a strong statement and recanted it almost immediately. “May I get deep with you for a moment?” 

“Sure.” If Kingsley didn’t know any better, he would’ve sworn he walked by his faithful father Before he knew what he was doing, for Remus had claimed he was Catholic without following the faith, Kingsley reached inside his clothes and handed over his abused Rosary. “Take this.” 

Lyall stepped back, hesitant, almost frightened of this gesture. He crossed himself. Kingsley considered himself a devout follower of the faith, had never had the gall to cross himself in public outside confession. And the father at Saint James’s Roman Catholic Church, as Remus had told Kingsley over and over again, was a twenty-five year old playing a game he couldn't possibly understand; the father had been a marked imposter in costume trying to a lot with not enough. 

Remus had often referred to Father Ryan as Father Babyface. 

Kingsley chuckled, remembering an afternoon when Remus had flat-out refused to entertain Father Ryan with a confession. He’d simply taken the sacrament, the bread and the wine, and got out of the church in a hurry as he advised Kingsley to not to waste anyone’s time. 

“Not enough.” Kingsley laughed, enjoying his memory. 

“What?” Taking off his pinned badge, Lyall strode out of the Ministry through the visitors’ entrance. He knew his way around, so Kingsley guessed he used to work here. Kingsley had already stepped over the line. They stepped out of the red telephone box together. “I’ll never forget you, Mr. Shacklebolt.” 

“Because I’m Minister for Magic?” Kingsley took a shot in the dark. He’d been someone way cooler before he’d entered into politics, and he still had to swallow this sorry, bitter pill. He wasn't too popular as an Auror, not like Mad-Eye Moody, yet Kingsley missed the thrill of the chase. 

“No. I don't pay attention to politics much as I’m stuck with the company of the dead. That sounded morbid as hell. Sorry.” Lyall followed this by saying he didn't really talk to people, and usually, Kingsley guessed, this would’ve turned more than a few people away. “No, sir, you’re the one who showed up at my door told me my son was dead. Not that I blame you. That was done beautifully, but I’ll never forget your face nor your voice.” 

“Mr. Lupin.” Kingsley slowed his pace as they walked down the London street. He’d encountered this a lot as he’d volunteered a lot to escort fallen officers home and return their bodies to their next of kin, but Remus had been like a brother to him in those years during the Second Wizarding War. 

“No, no, we’ve crossed that bridge. You are Kingsley." Lyall pointed at him and then placed his hand on his own chest. "I am Lyall. After a man receives the worst news of his life, sir, there is no point of return. I never wanted to bury my son; it doesn't seem right for a father to do such a thing. Do you have a family, or are you married to this office you hold so dearly?" 

"I'm not ..." Kingsley wished to say he wasn't too involved in office, nut Patti referred to him as "the man of the people". The papers, too, followed her example when she dropped it casually at press conferences, and Kingsley admitted he rather liked it. At any rate, he felt, it was better than the label of "Caretaker minister". Kingsley, frowning, went back to the man's question. "I have been married for ten years, and we have two children. Girls." 

"Ah, yes, I have seen photographs of them," said Lyall, putting his hands in his pockets as they went along. Kingsley could've swore this man said he paid no attention to politics. They stopped outside the Leaky Cauldron. "I'm old, Kingsley, seventy-two. I might get buried within my work, but I'm not blind. No. Not me. Fancy some lunch, Mr. Man of the People?" 

Kingsley, smirking, decided lunch would be on him without telling the man. After opening the door, he bowed Lyall inside and entered the pub. As it was an early Sunday afternoon, the place wasn't that packed, although Kingsley couldn't recall the last time he'd stopped in anywhere for a bite to eat. Tom, standing at the bar as usual, waved and gave them his old grin. When they got to a table, Tom gave them a batch of breaded mushrooms as a starter with mayonnaise. 

"On the house, Minister," said Tom, moving on to another table. He'd be back. Kingsley had never had any of these, although Lyall tucked in. 

Kingsley sniffed the mayonnaise, catching a hint of lemon in there. "That's a refreshing touch. The lemon." 

"Eat up." Lyall popped one of the mushrooms in his mouth and watched Kingsley examine one. When Tom came back around, they both ordered a rich stout. Lyall asked for some house salad, the soup of the day, and fish and chips. He nodded, watching Kingsley's face when the fried food arrived. "Remus said he worked with a health conscious friend. I take it that's you?" 

Kingsley relaxed a little. What a Remus move! Had Remus had good money during the war, he would've pulled a stunt like this and ordered quite the spread of fried food simply to enjoy the dight of an Auror squirming in front of him. If you're truly going to bother with torturing someone because it's a rainy day, Remus had once told him, exploit their small weaknesses and throw them in their face. It didn't take a lot. (Kingsley heard the echo of Remus's voice in his head as he recalled this bit of advice from an ordinary man. ) Mad-Eye Moody would've been proud. 

"You did this on purpose?" Kingsley simply asked the question. He had his off days where he dismissed moderation, too. 

Lyall raised an eyebrow. "Did I?" 

Kingsley decided today was his off day. Instead of attending regular service, he had went to Mass alone at dawn. Who came up with the genius idea of holding a Order of Merlin ceremony on a Sunday? Granted, a lot of folks weren't religious, but this had messed up his lazy day. He tasted the starter and ate three mushrooms. 

"Very good," said Lyall, sounding like a man who taught a boy how to tie a knot. "Harry Potter tells me you eat cardboard boxes for breakfast. If I were you, Kingsley, I wouldn't let that tidbit get out." 

"Christ! It's muesli," said Kingsley, rolling his eyes. He didn't know people who ate the stuff, but it was cheap. 

"My wife drizzled honey on top of the stuff," said Lyall. Kingsley added the dead woman to his list. "Tell me about my son." 

"I don't..." Kingsley thought this was an odd request. Unless Lyall and Remus grew apart from each other, and he knew for a fact they had not, this request seemed like a useless one. What didn't Lyall Lupin know about his son? 

"Did he tell you anything before he died?” asked Lyall. “I work with the dead, so believe you me when I tell you I understand how cliché it sounds. He died in a duel during the battle, and chances are you two weren't together." 

Lyall had waited a while to bring up these questions because he had needed to distance himself from the death. Even though he was an ex-Auror and had not escorted a body home for years, Kingsley felt himself analyzing a grieving father. Lyall finished his first drink and asked the barman for another. 

Glad for the first time that he wasn't an Auror, Kingsley helped himself to a sale and wondered whether this would be his first drunken Sunday. He was off, and if he needed to, he could take half a sick day to recover from this decision. Andromeda Tonks had come to him for answers, too, but a part of him knew this was going to be one of those days he’d never forget. 

“It wasn’t like that,” said Kingsley, delving into this, “For he was a lonely man. You could argue that he was a married man and his life had changed for the better. Maybe it had. I don't know, but I know Sirius’s death changed him. Did you know they all died? All four of the friends?” 

Lyall shook his head sadly. “They were good boys.” 

“As it turns out we were wrong on that account, and that’s not entirely true, but that’s not my place,” said Kingsley. He didn't want to shatter Remus’s happy childhood and ruin it for this man, so he waved his hand and continued. “That’s neither here nor there. I became friends with your son in a short period of time, and he appeared like he wasn’t all there to me.” 

“What’re you saying?” Lyall sat there, confused, and asked for plain English from a politician. “Aren’t you the one who headed the hunt for Sirius Black?” 

Kingsley nodded, thankful when Lyall had unknowingly given him a leg up.  
“Sirius spent a chunk of his life sitting in a cell. And I know him intimately. Not because we were close friends; Sirius made it clear that I represented the Ministry for him, and we would never be friends. When he left Azkaban, I think, and I do not know this, but I think this is the case, Sirius picked up where he left off. At least a part of him was a young twenty-something. Remus, who had grown up and experienced life for what it was, met his friend again at the age of thirty-three. They both had lost something after the war, and when Sirius was killed, Remus kind of lost another piece of himself …”

Lyall said nothing for a while and nursed his drink. Kingsley, a thinker, had been thinking about Sirius for years. Before he’d learned of Sirius’s innocence, Kingsley had been assigned to Sirius’s case when he had escaped from Azkaban in the summer of 1993. Outside of Sirius himself, Kingsley felt he’d known that man inside and out.  He hadn't really known Remus until he realized the drowning man needed saving. And Kingsley had almost been too late on that score. 

“I understand people. Back in the day, I used to make understanding people my business. I hadn’t had a friend in quite a while, so I daresay Remus and I needed each other.” Kingsley ordered dessert, although neither of them needed it. His Sunday belonged to this man. When Lyall said his excuse sounded rather ridiculous, Kingsley didn't argue the point. “When you delve into your work the way I do, whatever it is, you forget about a personal life.” 

Lyall nodded. As Kingsley told him when he had been on the run after saying Lord Voldemort’s name, he noticed the man did not flinch or squeal out in fright like most wizards or witches. When Kingsley asked why the Dark Lord didn't frighten him, Lyall told him of a night where he’d met Fenrir Greyback. As Lyall sat on an interrogation panel on behalf of the Department for the Regulation of Magical Creatures, Lyall had spotted the werewolf for what he was, and he, Lyall, got paid back in kind. 

“Remus told me,” said Kingsley. 

Lyall studied him thoughtfully, yet Kingsley shrugged it off. He’d used to get the truth out of some truly horrible people. Patience truly was a virtue. If you asked a man a question enough times, though there wasn’t always a set number, the truth came out eventually. Remus had shown himself to be a difficult nut to crack. After he’d returned from his stay among the werewolves, and it was amazing he didn’t get caught, Kingsley slowly picked away at the problem. This had happened shortly before Remus had tied the knot outside a Scottish tavern.  
“A lot of people share their secrets with you?” Lyall ate his slice of cake slowly. Kingsley, not really wanting his because he didn’t really like sweets, nudged his towards the man. If they were aiming for a sugar coma, they might as well polish it off. 

“Not a lot. No.” Kingsley recalled getting the truth out of Remus had been like breaking down a particularly difficult Death Eater. Although Kingsley cooked like a bachelor, but he had a practiced potions hand, so he could follow recipe whenever he got a hankering for a challenge. He grinned, revealing his secret weapon. “I made him my grandmother’s death by chocolate cake.” 

The sides of Lyall’s mouth twitched. Yep. That’ll do it.” 

This had taken Kingsley ages and ages to figure out. “Where were you five years ago, sir?” 

“Around.” Nobody ever asked for Lyall. “I think we attend the same church. Saint James’s?” 

“We do.” Completely floored by this, Kingsley wandered how they had never crossed paths. It was a busy place, but Kingsley had been attending that place forever. Struck by a sudden inspiration, he threw an offer on the table. He didn't have the time he needed to craft the thing from scratch, even by making the thing with magic, and he doubted Lyall could stomach it. “Which Sunday service do you go to?” 

“The one at dawn. I’m an early riser.” 

Kingsley wouldn't have expected this answer from a man who haunted down poltergeists and Boggarts, but he went with it. “Me, too. Tell you what. Why don’t you come by for Sunday dinner? And next week I’ll make you the cake.” 

“Death by chocolate?”    
“Yeah, that one. I needed to clear my Saturday anyway. If my press secretary needs me, she can speak to me in an apron, right?” Kingsley coughed when Lyall said he wasn't a baker. “Yeah, the Minister for Magic might be risking burning his place to the ground, so this might be an experience.” 

Lyall snuck in and paid for the meal before Kingsley had a chance. “Really?”  
“No. I’m not hopeless. I can cook. Really, I’m not too bad, but I choose to stay out of the kitchen. My father asked me to get a job over the summer whilst I attended school because he wanted to teach me proper money management, so I worked in a Muggle kitchen. I worked at a restaurant called Patches.” Kingsley was wealthy beyond wealthy; the only child in his family, Kingsley had more money to his name than he knew what to do with. 

Lyall barely touched the second slice and asked Tom for a carry out box. “Did it work?”    
“The cooking lessons?” As Kingsley had grown up in a house with a house-elf, he certainly hoped his brief stint in the kitchen did him good. 

“No. Did you learn how to manage coin? I made Remus work, too. He messed up in school once, and there was this incident with a schoolmate of his. I nearly killed him. His mother stepped in.” Lyall did not elaborate on the story. “I told the manager at the local pub to work him with every double shift till he dropped. He hated me.” 

“I don’t imagine that bothered you,” said Kingsley, getting to his feet. 

“Not in the slightest. I didn’t give a damn.” Lyall followed him outside of the Leaky Cauldron. “We should’ve met ages ago. I like you. You’re easy to talk to.” 

“Likewise.” 

Kingsley shook his hand, and they finished making plans for the following Sunday. As far as Kingsley was concerned, they could spend every Sunday together. As he walked off, testing his memory. Kingsley recited the recipe for death by chocolate.


	7. Edge of a Knife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kingsley goes back to the familiar on a sleepless night.

Life scared him. Kingsley wasn't afraid of dying, or at least he thought that he wasn't afraid of death. In those last moments, come what may, he felt as though he might freak out in those last moments. Didn't every one act like that? No, he feared the consequences of his life decisions, and he also feared not living. If he continued going down this road wherever it lead, surely he’d have to shoulder the consequences. 

Did he know anything? Did he want or need to know? He feared not recognizing himself. Politicians all set out to do the right thing. This was a really twisted view of the world, and he hadn't been a world leader, but hadn’t Lord Voldemort done the same thing? In his mind, in his warped, manipulative master plan, You-Know-Who had actually been an effective leader. There was a Muggle leader during the Second World War, Adolf Hitler, who had used rhetoric and charisma to nearly take over Europe back in the day. 

Kingsley lay awake at night thinking about these things. Although his mind certainly wanted to sleep, and he desperately needed it, it failed to shut off. He worried about stupid stuff. Did he thank Penelope Clearwater for her efforts towards the press conference? Although he knew he'd done this already, did he send that owl off to what's his name? Should he write his own speeches? He wanted a cup of coffee, but he didn't really need it, and he felt too lazy to get up to get it. 

This had lasted for two days. The Minister for Magic didn’t take sick days, but he really, really needed sleep. A Sleeping Draught put his body to rest, which is what he had resorted to tonight. Sluggish and dead weight, he’d barely made it to the bathroom, which would’ve been funny under different circumstances. What was really funny about being in a drug induced state and a forty-something year old wetting himself?  
Giving up on sleep for the third or fourth time that night, Kingsley dragged himself into the sitting room and collapsed into an armchair. Patti slept through anything. He probably looked like death. After signing some bill into law, his advisors had told him it was the right thing, but they told him anything. This was the problem with holding a powerful position: everyone acted as your friend and your enemy. 

It was two in the morning. What was he going to do? He’d tried reading a book earlier, yet the words played tricks on his tired eyes, and strange words started forming themselves. Without bothering to change out of his wrinkled clothes he walked over to his fireplace and threw a pinch of Floo Powder into the dying flames. An invisible match struck itself. The flames turned emerald green. 

He stood there, tittering on the edge of a knife. He needed an ear, but who did he want? He went with the person he knew would be awake at this hour. Early and late meant the same thing to those who could not sleep. When he stepped into Penelope’s expensive flat, he was nots surprised she was not asleep. 

“It’s two o’clock.” He straightened himself. 

“I would say the same to you, but what’s the point?” She didn't sound as tired as him, but sleep evaded her, too. Kingsley vaguely remembered telling her to not visit his place past eight. The door, apparently, didn’t swing both ways. She didn't throw him out or ask him to leave. “Do I get three guesses as to what you’re thinking about?”  
“I didn't know you liked guessing games.” Kingsley considered her his faithful work wife because there wasn't much they kept from each other. Yes, they kept their personal and professional lives separate. He turned his back to her and rubbed his hands over the fire. 

“You got cornered into signing a bill you didn't like,” she said, setting a book aside and getting to her feet. Her curly hair was down, and she wore a demure nightgown. Her dressing gown laid over the arm of the armchair. Penelope said this matter-of-factly, and she strode over to him confidently. Why bother with those other two guesses when she wouldn't need them? 

Kingsley was the moral compass. Wasn't he the incorruptible Minister? Well, he felt as though he had blood on his hands. He should’ve left the goblin rebellion alone. He’d known this the day Bill 702 got on his desk, but there had been pressure from all sides. What was he supposed to do when the Curse Breakers continued on like nothing happened and the goblins at Gringotts threatened to strike? There had been an uprising, a small one. He took responsibility. 

“We don't govern them,” said Kingsley, speaking to himself. He’d been having this one-sided conversation for a good while. “If they choose not to have a hand in our wars, and that’s their right, who are we to get involved? They don’t want our help. I’ve had a meeting with the goblin liaison …” 

Penelope massaged his shoulders when he sat down in the wooden chair in the dining room. Though a voice in the back of his mind said he should tell her to stop, he closed his eyes. Her father had been a chiropractor. He wasn’t sure what this was. She relieved the pain, tension she called it, with her hands. 

“You do this for other people?” Kingsley stared at the neutral-colored walls. Try as he might to pretend they weren’t whatever they were, he said, “You need to marry that young man and stop staying at the Ministry until midnight.” 

“That place owns me,” said Penelope. 

“It doesn't have to.” Kingsley smiled, for he’d been the one to tell her to get out and get a life. He hadn't said it in those exact words, of course, but he didn't know if she’d heeded his word. She let it happen. Even when he was an Auror, Kingsley went out and got a drink or attended a concert art two. He liked Muggle music because there was a better selection. Yesterday, he’d noticed something glittering on her hand. “You accepted. You know he’s a foreign correspondent for the New York Ghost.” 

Penelope nodded. She knew Mr. Spinnett well enough. “He’s not marrying me for a story, you know.”  
Kingsley raised his eyebrows, surprised. That’s not what he had meant at all! He’d been there and done this. Patti had stayed in New York for years and placed so much stress on their relationship. Patti owned the brownstone now, which was nice, and rented it out whenever she didn't have a lengthy stay in the States. Last year, after passing the girls off to his parents for New Year’s, they travelled to Madison Square Garden to enjoy the holiday. 

“I know that,” said Kingsley, a little bothered, for he almost said he’d never suggest such a thing. He wasn’t easy to anger and felt oddly protective of Penelope. She was something between a sister and something else. Penelope drummed her fingers on his shoulders. “Penelope.” 

“Yes?” 

Kingsley’s voice caught in his throat. “I did something wrong.” 

Penelope pulled out his chair. She lit the candles on the immaculate dining room table; he doubted she ate actual meals here. Neither of them said anything for a long minute. She assured him he did nothing wrong, since these things got swept under the rug all the time. Weren’t people allowed to behead their own house-elves and go on about their days like nothing happened? True, the dark truth behind this was that house-elves, according to estate law, were property. Kingsley felt awkward mentioning this, seeing as he had a house-elf himself. If nobody bothered with the house-elves, why should anyone bother with the goblins? 

“Because they are members of the community.” Kingsley gave the expected answer, thinking it was the right thing to say. He believed that. “If the goblins threaten to leave the bank, the economy’s shot and inflation will go through the roof. Why can’t we all be friends?” 

“Because that's naive,” said Penelope, perching herself on his lap. Kingsley, shocked at this bold move, said she sounded like Patti. Penelope kissed him and they made out. The years faded away. The Sunday in his office came fresh into his mind. 

“You’re engaged.” 

“You’re married, Minister.” Penelope distracted him again. He didn't remember her being this good of a kisser. He slipped his hands underneath her nightgown. 

“Take it off.”  
“Kingsley.” She took his face in her hands. “What do you want?” 

Kingsley hesitated for a fraction of a second. “No.” 

Why had they kept here on staff? Patti had insisted Penelope Clearwater was a talented find. There was no arguing this. He thought about her constantly whenever the two of them were alone in his office. Those were few and far in between, yet they stuck out in his mind. It was like a cat hunting a laser. In truth, his wife had done this to keep him in line. 

“You’re beautiful. You are very … attractive and alluring.” Kingsley got an erection and shoved her off his lap. He refused to cross that line! An affair with his press secretary would ruin him. And her. Penelope, affronted, acted hurt and a little surprised he turned on her. “If things were different, Penelope, I’d gladly take you up on this offer. We can’t.” 

“You’d marry me.” Penelope, recovering quickly, smiled sheepishly. She shied away from the embarrassment and painted a picture for him. “And the girls would be ours? You’re very idealistic.” 

“You’ve probably never met someone as Catholic as me.” 

Kingsley shrugged when she shook her head. He got that a lot. He stayed devout not so much for his soul as for his sanity. He dropped his face in his hands, struggling to grasp the ongoing battle in his head. Was it possible to love two women at once? Penelope wasn’t a distraction. In fact, he held her in high esteem and valued her opinion more than he did anyone else’s. Penelope meant more than pretty distraction. 

“I’ve never been with anyone else,” he said. 

Kingsley was not embarrassed; this was merely a fact. What did he care? He couldn't divorce Patti and run off with his press secretary! Talk about political suicide. No matter what he did with his future endeavors, he’d been known as the idiot who abandoned Patti Shacklebolt and left her out to dry with two children ion tow. Penelope mentioned, embarrassed again, that she’d been Percy Weasley’s girlfriend - Kingsley picked up too late on the fact that he ought to have feigned surprise. 

“Nobody has to know.” Penelope opted for the stupid, careless suggestion first. 

What a grand idea! Kingsley stopped himself from chiding her. However much she may appear to have it all together, she was still learning, too. What if they waited until after he left office? Of course, the tabloids and the rags would lap it up, or Rita Skeeter would catch wind of a scoop - a worthy scandal - but they could live quietly. 

“Penelope, you are engaged.” Kingsley spoke evert would clearly and slowly, willing for her to get this in her brain. She entertained him with this fantasy, and perhaps it would work. When she mentioned kids, a son, still riding off her active imagination, he laughed mirthlessly. “My father would disown me.” 

“You don't care about money,” she said, uncertain. She went into the kitchen and came back with expensive coffee. “Never mind. I don’t want children.” 

“You will,” said Kingsley darkly, sipping his coffee. He didn't know this for certain. When he was young and in his mid-twenties, the very last thing on his mind was children. He came from a pure-blood family. The day he found out about Rachelle, he changed as a person. Penelope shook her head, tears in her eyes, insisting family didn't matter. “You say that. You don't know!” 

“The girls. Rachelle and Amarie … they can be our girls.”  
“After I get divorced? I’m telling you the moment I turn my back on Patti …” 

“People get divorced all the time!” Penelope pointed out that her own parents and her aunt and uncle were divorced. 

“You’re going to convert to Catholicism for me?” Penelope shook her head, backtracking a little, hesitant. “You’ve been there and done that, haven’t you? Cross it off the list.” 

Kingsley actually threw his head back and laughed. Blushing, Penelope mentioned she wasn't one to follow organized religion. He knew she didn't attend church on Sundays. This was all simply hypothetical, wasn't it? She could live in this illusion with a little boy, and Rachelle, and Amarie. Kingsley had promised himself to another woman and his heart belonged to another. He could love two women, but his heart belonged to one. 

“I love her.” Kingsley got to his feet. If he gave Patti away over this, over a yearning for something new, he’d spend the rest of his life begging her to come back. Penelope said no. Kingsley didn't want to hurt her. If he had to choose, there would be no contest. He needed her to hear this because she clearly didn’t get this the last time. Penelope’s tears moved him so much that he almost caved. “I hope you find someone … and maybe this Mr. Spinnett is it. Patti - she’s everything.” 

“You love me,” Penelope said meekly, though he’d never said this to her. 

“I don't know.” Kingsley went with honesty. Perhaps it was nothing more than infatuation because she presented herself as a new love. Penelope said no again. Exhausted, he threw up his hands in exasperation. It took him a moment to see she could drag him down to hell. What if she wrote a memoir or leaked whatever they were doing to the press? “I’m going to bed.” 

“Kingsley. Please.” 

“You need to go to your fiancé, Penelope, and dive into wedding plans or whatever you need … because this isn't happening. My wife forgave me. People like her … they don't give second or third chances.” Kingsley refused to lose Rachelle or Amarie, for there was simply too much at stake. “I am not this person. What I did yesterday with that bill. What the hell in the matter with me?” 

He knew this was a loaded question. Kingsley didn't want to be this person who took advantage of power simply because it was there. After he said good night, he stepped back into the fireplace and went home. When he clambered out of the fireplace, feeling an odd sense of dejá vu, he walked over and kissed his wife. Patti had come downstairs after she’d noticed he was not in bed. 

“You’re not wearing shoes,” said Patti. When he suggested they make love, she shook her head. “You’re dead on your feet. And they’re filthy. Go to bed. Take a shower first.”  
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, dragging himself upstairs. He fell asleep in the bath. 

 

The following morning he slept in. Patti must’ve given some excuse because nobody sent him an owl. It was one o’clock in the afternoon when he woke up in the bed, and he drifted off again. Patti, he guessed had clothed him, and she confirmed this later, though he didn’t remember this. Startled, he sat bolt upright and looked around frantically. Patti sat on the edge of the bed, forced him down, and spoon-fed him soup. 

“I’m not four,” he said. Kingsley knew by the taste of this she hadn’t made it. “Who made this?” 

“Who do you think?” Patti handed him the bowl and the large spoon. 

“Posey.” Kingsley hadn’t really been home enough recently to appreciate the house-elf’s cooking. The hearty homemade soup made him feel warm inside. Patti said he had a temperature and the sweats. She’d warned him that if he kept running ragged like this, it would catch up with him. “I’m dragging.” 

“You can't do this alone. Haven't I told you?” Patti handed him a tonic and told the girls to go play. Rachelle and Amarie hadn't seen Kingsley for the longest time outside of a hello and a goodbye. “Kingsley, if you insist on carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders…” “…I’m going to drop it,” he said, finishing one of her old sayings. Patti had a lot of these tidbits for her clients. The broth at the end was the best part. Posey went to fetch him seconds. 

Patti nodded, seeming to appreciate that he listened to her. Or perhaps he simply wanted him to shut up. She said so. 

“No. I don’t like cooked celery.” He scrutinized the ingredients in the spoon. Oddly enough, he thought Posey knew this. 

“Posey doesn't like you ill and nether do I.” Patti gave the house-elf free reign, though she had initially been against having her around. Posey’s mother had initially helped raise Kingsley. As he ate the soup, Kingsley he couldn’t really taste the celery bits. 

“What do you think about house-elves?” 

“They aren't used in the United States,” she said, clarifying after a moment. “Well, they are, but they aren't slaves. They work in establishments like restaurants, pubs and places like that. You tip house-elves there like you do servers. They earn a living. One of them thought me to play cards.” 

“Really?” Interested, Kingsley kept Posey in the room when she served him fresh bread. He wanted her to hear this. Whilst Posey was as devoted as any other house-elf, she got certain freedoms. He knew that house-elves were not goblins; it was dangerous to make such classifications. 

“Posey enjoys serving Master Kingsley,” said Posey. She climbed into a chair like a small child and automatically asked if he needed anything else. 

“No, thank you, Posey.” Kingsley winced when Patti mentioned that she had sent an owl telling the Ministry he’d be back on Monday. He’d gotten another day off. “There’s no point.” The job wore on him and there was no denying it. Kingsley needed to taker better care of himself. It wasn't enough to go running. He knew that. The girls, not to be deterred from their father when he was actually home, jumped into the bed with him. Rachelle, seven now, acted like her own person. She liked her little sister, which was good, because she felt rather protective of her. It astounded Kingsley with all the gene combinations, how much these two resembled each other. Amarie was Rachelle in miniature. 

“Hey,” he said, grinning when Amarie snuggled next to him. She passed out for an afternoon nap. “You want to make another carbon copy?”  
Patti’s eyes got really big. “No. Ha, ha. She’s four, and she’s eight. I’m done.” 

“I was kidding,” he said, smiling at Rachelle. Not that he had a favorite, but if he did, she’d be it. She was a bright child. And he wasn't simply saying this because he was her father; the girl surpassed him and surprised him day after day. He played regular Muggle’s chess with her on the bed. “Do you want another sister?” “Kingsley,” said Patti warningly. The daughter got no vote here. 

“No.” Rachelle helped herself to his pawn and laid on her stomach; her feet swung in the air. “When’re we going back to New York?” 

“To live? We’re not. That’s mine.” Kingsley slapped Rachelle’s hand as she tried to cover up her mistake. He snatched her rook. “Your move.” 

“You never lived there, Dad.” Rachelle decided she was done for the time being and set the chessboard carefully under the bed. 

“Actually I lived there before you were born. For a month.” Kingsley had spent his time fixing things mainly. Rachelle frowned at him, skeptical. “Don’t believe me? There’s a cubbyhole behind the clock. And your window seat? I built that. Mum used to read there.” 

Patti shared a laugh with Kingsley. Before the kids had come along, they had the world in front of them. Kingsley wasn't the best carpenter, but he was smart enough to see the bigger picture and figured stuff out. He’d also helped Patti with the nursery. 

“We’ll go for Christmas.” Patti didn't specify which Christmas. Kingsley took this as a smart move. He neither liked nor disliked New York, but for him, it presented an escape more than anything else. She got up when the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it.” 

“Bet Daddy’s got to go to work.” Kingsley mirrored Rachelle’s disappointment, making her laugh. He put a finger to his lips, telling her to keep it down whilst her sister slept. “Are you coming?” 

Rachelle liked watching people. Kingsley couldn’t remember if this was his doing or not, though it probably was. But he’d had a job teaching her not to stare people down; people watching crossed a fine line this way. Curiosity became rudeness really quick. Some people went window shopping, and he took his daughter people watching. 

“Neville!” Rachelle ran past Kingsley. 

“Oh, my goodness, look how big you are. You keep growing. Like a weed!” Neville turned away from Patti and scooped Rachelle up awkwardly. “You’re going to be, like, six feet when you get to school.” 

“Speaking of school, how’re those interview rounds coming?” asked Kingsley. 

Kingsley had initially been put out when Neville quit the Auror Department for the comfort of Hogwarts Castle. But Neville belonged amongst his plans. The way he talked about some of these plant species, Kingsley would’ve thought that he revered some of them as his children. Some people had children; some people had grandchildren; some people had pets; Neville had his plants. Kingsley had heard through the grapevine that Neville was pretty much a shoe-in for the position as long as he didn't screw it up. He couldn't tell Neville this, of course, because a nervous Neville meant a Neville on his game. 

“Pretty good. I mean, their not really interviews where you sit down and chat, are they? We moved around the greenhouses the whole time. I didn't know it, but Professor McGonagall had me arrive a couple hours early so I wouldn't be late.” “Did she now?” Unbeknownst to Neville, this had been Kingsley’s idea - Minerva rather thought it was a stroke of genius. Posey went to go fetch food for their guest. Neville explained he’d sent an owl to Kaspar Williamson asking about Kingsley’s whereabouts and had heard he had taken ill. “I’m fine. I’m a little under the weather, but I’m fine. I thought of a place for you to go.” 

Depending on whether he got the job or not, Neville planned on traveling the world to study plants. As a parting gift from the Ministry, Kingsley had gotten him a little something. Patti, grinning, went to go fetch it from the study. The study was actually a third bedroom. It was a glass box. He could’ve probably gotten this from Hagrid. But Kingsley went through the trouble of using other contacts. There was a Bowtruckle in a rectangular glass box. 

 

“That is awesome!” Neville clapped his hands together. 

“Oh, good.” Kingsley sounded relieved. He wasn't sure whether this was going to work or not. “I knew you’re a herbologist. I read Newt Scamander was rather fond of these. I call it Zeek. Your father used to use that as a cover. Mr. Todd.” 

“Ezekiel? No kidding?” Patti frowned at Kingsley as something dawned on her. She thanked the house-elf for the drinks and cursed. Rachelle, surprised, gaped at her. “I think Frank Longbottom hit on me.” 

Neville and Kingsley burst out laughing. 

“For like an hour. Oh, my God.” Patti flushed red and buried her face behind a throw pillow. 

“Oh, yeah! That was the day he told me to keep you on a tighter leash. And Mad-Eye did this.” Kingsley, still laughing, shook his finger disapprovingly at Patti. He did it for a good minute because it took a moment for Patti to lower for pillow. “Shame, wife, for shame. I bet Longbottom loved that.” 

“He … he was very funny.” Patti smiled at Neville. “Frank Longbottom. Damn.” 

Zeek the Bowtruckle seemed quite at home when Neville let him - or it- out. He showed it to Rachelle first, careful of its sharp pinchers, and stuck it in the pocket of his coat. Neville seemed happy because his toad, Trevor, had recently passed. That toad apparently had a record with getting lost. If Neville had a hard time keeping his hands on a toad, Kingsley didn't have high hopes for a Bowtruckle. 

“I never learned how to handle those things in school,” said Patti, admiring Neville’s fingers. 

“Oh, they’re easy. Low maintenance. Got some wood lice and you’re good to go.” Neville caught a pouch Kingsley found in the functional foot rest. The lid came off for storage. “Awesome.” 

“Don’t put in the same pocket!” Kingsley warned him as Neville changed his mind and stuffed the wood lice into his trousers pocket. “So, when do you start?” 

Neville studied Kingsley quizzically as if he studied a particularly interesting specimen. He asked to use the kitchen, and they said it was fine. Neville didn't ask where stuff was because he stuff around him and there and used a Summoning Charm. Whatever he was making in there, he used a mortar and pestle. When he came back, he handed Kingsley a green gunky paste in the mortar. He had some on his face. 

“No, thank you,” said Kingsley. 

Neville wiped the gunk off with his finger and tasted it. “I’ve made batches of it. It clears you up really well because it clears the airway passages. Madam Promfrey swears by it. It’s like avocado.”

“Got any cocoa powder?” asked Neville, not picking up on Kingsley’s doubt. Patti Summoned some, and Neville sprinkled it in. He gazed at Kingsley, expectant. “It’s creamy.” 

“Mad-Eye would say not to do this,” said Kingsley. 

“Yeah, and it was crazy.” Neville started chatting up Zeek the Bowtruckle. “Me? Not crazy.” 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know I haven't updated this in ages. I didn't know where to go with it. I know I wanted to continue with it. It took a good minute to figure out where it was going. As always, reviews and critiques would be appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this idea occurred to me when I thought how weird it was that Kingsley Shacklebolt would choose three seventeen-year-olds as the foundation for the Auror Department. This is probably not "Next Generation". Sorry, folks.
> 
> Secondly, if you haven't already, you need to read Kerichi's _Love and Alchemy_. Her interpretation of Draco Malfoy in that piece was like a freaking eye-opener for me. Ya'll ever had an epiphany over a character reading fan fiction? Draco's growth in that story was one of those moments. For me. I kind of drew from that to write Mr. Malfoy here.
> 
> *The quote comes directly from JKR’s conversation in DH when Harry, Ron, and Hermione, are listening to Potterwatch.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it. It was fun to write. As always, reviews would make my day.


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